Demise in Denim (20 page)

After Dinky left at five to go to her own home of baby Boomer plus husband, I dismantled my bed. I put the mattress on the floor and slid the four-poster that Hollis had left behind down the steps. I did the same with the dresser: dumped all my clothes on the floor, then pushed the dresser to the steps. I angled it down like a giant sled. The fact that I didn't get squashed at the bottom was a freaking miracle.

I took the curtains from my bedroom too, and put them at the dining room window and tied them back with a yellow scarf, making the room look homey. I turned on the chandelier that had been with the house forever, and the light danced on the ceiling and walls. It was late and I was beat, especially after no sleep the night before followed by two shots of vodka, but the fear of being broke and living in one of Anna and Bella's cardboard boxes on the banks of the Savannah River spurred me on.

“So, what do you think?” I asked BW, as the two of us sat on the steps eating a granola bar. He barked and wagged his tail, and “Not bad” came from the top of the steps. I jerked around to see Boone smiling down at us.

“Holy Christmas, are you trying to wind up in jail?” I asked in a loud whisper as Boone trotted down the steps.

“Your bedroom is trashed.”

I turned off the chandelier to offer a bit of privacy; the only lights left on were the two floor lamps just brought in. “Anna and Bella's Boutique ran me out of the clothing business,” I explained to Boone. “Least temporarily, so now I'm in the used-furniture business. Wanna donate your couch?”

“Hands off the couch, blondie.” Boone added a weak smile, but his eyes were sunk deep, his face lined with fatigue, his sweatshirt filthy, jeans ripped and torn. He draped an arm around me and I snuggled close as we sat back on the steps. “Sorry about leaving you with a dead body and Deckard,” he said. “I had no idea he'd show up.”

“How are you doing?”

“I've been worse,” Boone said, but somehow I doubted it.

“Why are you here? Look,” I said, coming to my senses.
“You have to leave. Deckard could show up any minute. He's like the Black Plague infecting our lives.”

Boone still didn't budge, his eyes serious as he looked into mine. “I know what the cops say about me and Harper, and I wanted you to know it's not true.”

“Did you ever call her
blondie
?”

“Of course not.”

“There, case closed. Now go.”

“You believe me, right?”

“Of course. I know you. I know you as an enemy and as a friend and a fugitive on the run and . . .” I swallowed. “And whatever we are now. You're a righteous dude, Walker Boone.” Then I kissed him, his mouth hot and hungry against mine. His fingers wound into my hair, his hand firm against my back. I could feel him breathe and it felt wonderful having him here with me even if it was just for a few minutes.

“You have to go,” I whispered against his lips. Using every ounce of willpower I possessed, I pushed myself away and stood gazing down at him, my heart tight in my chest. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“You too, blondie.” He gave me another smile, this one coming all the way from his heart. Then I took Boone's arm, pulled him up, shoved him toward the back door, and froze. I did the
shh
sign across my lips. I swear if someone hadn't invented that sign we'd all be dead.

“Deckard,” I whispered, pointing to a shadowy figure passing by the rear dining room window.

“Is the back door locked?”

“I was busy.”

Think, Reagan, think!
I snatched a coat from the donate pile that Dinky and I had assembled and tossed it around Boone because no way would it fit him. He stared at me wide-eyed as I wrapped three scarves around his neck, covering his chin and draping down his front. I added a floppy hat, then shoved a big pink purse that I had no idea why I took to consign in the first place at him. Boone's pants and shoes wouldn't fool a woman, but Deckard was no woman, he was just a slimy creep.

“This worked before,” I whispered to Boone, then shoved him into the display window next to Gwendolyn, positioned his arms mannequin-like, tossed a scarf around his shoes to hide them, and then sat back on the steps, heart pounding, as Deckard strolled into the hallway.

“You're not allowed to come into my house like this, you know,” I said to Deckard, my voice wobbly and my legs shaking.

Deckard's teeth flashed against the dim light and he flipped on the dining room chandelier, the brightness stretching out into the hall. “I am if I think there's illegal activity going on.”

Deckard prowled his way around the furniture I'd just assembled. He paused in front of the closet Dinky and I had arranged and yanked the clothes apart, hangers flying out into the air.

“Running a consignment shop isn't exactly illegal,” I said as Deckard ambled my way. “My permits are up to date, I have insurance, and I pay my taxes.”

Deckard stopped by Dinky's desk, which was way too close to the display window. I needed a distraction; I needed
to keep Deckard focused on me and not looking around. Maybe if I acted a little crazy or maybe afraid, anything to keep his attention away from the blasted display window.

“Your office?” Deckard asked.

“Maybe.”

“It's that chick's who works for Boone, I recognize that flower stapler piece of crap. You're just one big happy family here, aren't you?” Deckard's eyes went to thin slits, his jaw set. “So where is he?”

“Where's who?”

Deckard started toward me and BW's back arched, his tail stiff, eyes glowing, and he growled deep in his doggie throat.

Deckard stopped. “I should shoot that dog.”

My back arched, my eyes glowed, and I growled, and it was not acting at all, just pure gut reaction. “Bad things happen to people who shoot dogs, Officer Deckard.”

His lip curled. “You're threatening me, blondie?”

“Bad things happen to people who shoot dogs. They can be walking along and just keel over, and lo and behold if someone didn't poison their doughnut or their coffee or put a rattlesnake in their car, a scorpion in their bed. Maybe someone just throws the jackass in the river and no one ever finds him again. Bad things happen to people who kill dogs.”

Deckard didn't move a muscle for a full minute, my eyes not leaving his. “You're a scary person, Reagan Summerside.”

“No one messes with my family.”

“Does Boone know what he's getting himself into?”

“Get out of my house.”

Deckard turned and headed for the kitchen. He disappeared around the corner and I heard the door click shut, and then Deckard's shadow passed by the dining room window. “Well done, Reagan Summerside,” Boone said from the display window, not daring to move a hair just yet.

“The bastard threatened our dog.”

I
TURNED
off the chandelier, then peeked around Boone and gazed out into the dark. Cones of streetlight dotted the sidewalks; porch lights were like a string of pearls running down Gwinnett. “Think he'll be back?” I asked Boone, still in the display window.

“Not tonight, but the next time he shows up he'll be playing for keeps and it won't be pretty. You pissed him off.”

“The feeling's mutual.”

Boone slowly backed up, then hopped out of the window and flattened himself against the wall. “In case you have nosy neighbors.”

“In case?” That brought a smile. “All I have are nosy neighbors; the good part is they like you better than they like me. I'm the one who lets BW get away and poop in their flower beds.”

Boone snagged me around the waist and brought me to him hard, his dark mysterious eyes gazing down at me. He smoothed back my hair and planted a kiss on my forehead.

“That's the best you got?”

His eyes went coal black. “What I got we can't start now.”

“You're not going to jail.”

“It's not looking too good right now and . . . and if things don't get better . . . like you said, I'm not going to jail.”

“Take me with you.”

He smiled the way only Boone can, with a soft gleam in his eyes that bordered on devilment. “And then I'd have to take your mamma, Auntie KiKi, BW, and probably even the Abbott sisters.”

“No Chantilly or Mercedes?”

“Yeah, Chantilly and Mercedes, too.” Then he kissed me again, hard and fast and a bit desperate. He took my hand and headed for the kitchen, not exactly the room of the house I was hoping for.

“What are we doing?”

“Eating. I'm starved and you have ham and cheese and whole-wheat bread and an avocado. I love avocados when they're perfectly ripe and—”

“Waitaminute.” I yanked Boone to a stop right there in the hallway. “You know what's in my fridge? You're the one who filled my fridge, and you're the one who ate most of the food Mamma dropped off.”

I parked my hands on my hips, bits and pieces falling together. “How did you get out of my bathroom when Deckard came calling, and why is BW always sleeping in the hallway? You're . . . you're living here!”

“Sometimes.” I gave him the
bite me
look. “Most of the time.”

“And you never told me, and I was worried where you were and—”

“You were worried?” He tried to kiss me.

“That's not going to work this time, lawyer boy. Yes, I was worried and all the time you were . . . Where were you?” I glanced around. “Where the heck were you?”

“You have an attic; actually it's more like a third floor that a lot of older houses have and got blocked off over the years. There's an access panel in the hallway that you can crawl through, and in the bathroom there's—”

“I didn't finish off under the sink in case I needed to get to the plumbing again, an old house hazard. It leads to the attic.” I punched Boone in the arm. “Why didn't you tell me you were here?”

“Well, you see, you sort of get this dopey look when you talk about me,” Boone said, looking a little smug.

“You rat.”

“You're the one who looks dopey and it's cute, actually it's adorable, but if you knew I was right over your head, well, everybody would know I was here.”

“Mamma knew, didn't she? That's why I got the care package and why it all disappeared so fast. You're the one who got rid of that stalker guy, and you're the one who pulled that fire alarm at the Plantation Club and pulled me away from getting run over by that truck. And you ate all my Fig Newtons. How'd you know about the third-floor attic? I didn't even know how to get up there. You know more about my house than I do?”

Boone ran his hand over his rough chin and studied the hardwood floor. “I sort of had your house appraised. Look,” he rushed on. “When you were divorcing Hollis, he wanted to sell the place and I talked him out of it.”

“And I got the house. All along I thought it was because Hollis didn't want people to think he was a complete ass, except Hollis is a complete ass and no way would he not sell the house and kiss off all that money.” My eyes shot wide open. “You paid him for my house?”

“No, of course not. I waived my attorney fees and we called it even, so can we eat now or what?”

It was after midnight; BW was in my bed and Boone wasn't. Deckard knew something was going on when he showed up tonight, and like Boone said, the next time he came calling it would be with a warrant and half the Savannah police department. They'd find the attic.

I stared at the ceiling from my mattress on the floor and watched shadows dance across the cracks that needed plastering and painting. I'd told Boone about Russell not buying the Old Harbor Inn, and we agreed that if he did knock off Conway and frame Boone for it, Russell wouldn't have walked away from the deal. We also agreed Tucker had to be spitting mad and that he was suspect number one. The problem was still how to prove it.

•   •   •

Dinky was at the Fox at nine sharp with a fresh fruit salad and mini muffins and a little bit of baby puke down her back that we got cleaned up. The phone guys said they'd come tomorrow to work their magic and set
Dinky up with a fax. I got in a platform rocker, twin beds, a nice yellow rug, and two desk lamps. A moving truck pulled to the curb and unloaded a dining room set, a step stool, and four bar stools and said the consigner would come around later to fill out the papers.

“This is never going to work,” Dinky said to me as I dragged furniture around to arrange things. “You're too busy; it's like a three-ring circus here.”

I swiped hair from my face and massaged my achy arms. “Yeah, now I got a house full of furniture but I need customers. The customer part is the whole point.”

“I know,” Dinky said with a clever look on her face. “I'll move my desk into the kitchen. That way I'll be out of the traffic area and closer to the coffee. Great idea, huh?”

Now I had no bed, no money, no customers, and no kitchen, but Dinky did bring fruit salad and muffins. “Sure, I'll help you. We can lift the door off the back of the two chairs and take it into the kitchen, then come back and get the chairs and just reassemble the—”

“There you are!” Tucker Adkins yelped as he staggered through the door and into the hall. His eyes looked like Google Maps, his breath at about eighty proof and counting, his suit wrinkled and dirty, no shower, no shave, lots of odor.

“You've ruined my life.” He waved his hand in the air. “Everything was going to work out and then you had to start poking around, make Russell nervous, and now he's gone.”

“Actually I think he's just down at the Savannah River Inn.”

Eyes huge, Dinky inched closer to me and held my hand. Tucker picked up the flowered stapler from her desk and
threw it across the room, breaking one of the lamps that had just arrived.

“The Old Harbor Inn should be mine,” Tucker slurred. Dinky squeezed my hand hard as Tucker added, “I shouldn't have to wait for Boone to get out of the way to get it. It's mine! Conway bought it with my mother's money.”

“Pisses you off, does it?”

Dinky gave me a
shut the heck up
look and Tucker pushed the fax machine off the desk; the machine crashed, pieces scattered everywhere. I took that as a yes, he was ticked.

“Wish Boone never showed up?” I said, trying for more information as Dinky kicked me in the shins.

Tucker hurled the lamp on Dinky's desk across the room.

“Wish Boone were dead? Glad Conway is? How did you get Boone's gun from his desk? Swipe a key? Get a locksmith?”

“Key?” Tucker blinked, trying to fight through the alcohol fog. “Gun?” He wobbled. “I didn't kill Conway. Russell came to me, said he'd take care of everything.”

Tucker stumbled, then tumbled onto the desk; the door listed to one side, then flipped up and smacked Tucker on the forehead, sending him backward onto the floor, completely knocked out.

“Dear Lord above!” Dinky shrieked, her hair standing straight up. She took a closer look. “Is he dead?”

Dinky nudged Tucker's arm with her toe, and I bent down and felt his neck like they do in the movies. “He's alive . . . I think.”

“Too bad. What do we do now, call the police?”

“Freaking no, not the cops. Let's call his wife. Poor Steffy Lou, she's got to live with this . . . thing. I don't know her phone number.”

“I do. She and Mr. Boone were on that theater project together.” Dinky retrieved her computer off the floor and pried it open, and the screen came to life. Dinky folded her hands and gazed skyward. “And God bless Apple.” She scurried over to her iPhone, which had skittered into the corner, and punched in the numbers.

“Uh, Mrs. Adkins,” Dinky started. “Your husband is out cold over here at the Prissy Fox on Gwinnett, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news but he's still alive, he's just sort of a big blob in the hallway. So if you could come get him we'd be mighty grateful.” Dinky disconnected.

“Bad news? A big blob on the floor?”

“I was nervous.”

I looked back to Tucker, and Dinky did the same; then she jumped back. “He's making noises!” She picked up her flowered stapler and stood over Tucker in battle mode. “I'll protect us.”

I leaned closer. “I think he's snoring.”

A car squealed to a stop at the curb and I caught sight of Steffy Lou hustling up the walk. She threw open the front door. “Land of Goshen, can anything else happen in my life?”

She nudged Tucker with the toe of her shoe, and her nudge was a lot harder than Dinky's. “Get up, you drunken sot, you're embarrassing yourself to no end and me right along with it. I do declare, sometimes I wonder what in the world I got myself into marrying you like I did. I could have been on Broadway.”

For a second I thought Steffy Lou might burst into song, but instead she pulled Tucker's big beefy arm to get him up. Not wanting Tucker in our hallway, Dinky and I each grabbed a leg.

“To the car,” Steffy directed, dragging Tucker out onto the porch, and Dinky and I followed. Pushing and pulling, we manhandled Tucker Adkins to the white Lexus SUV. Steffy Lou opened the back hatch, and it took all three of us to hoist the two-hundred-plus pounds of inebriated fat into the back.

Dinky ran back inside to answer her phone, which was ringing like no tomorrow, and Steffy Lou said to me, “My housekeeper will help once I get him home.” She leaned heavily against the car. “First I lose Harper; now Tucker's off the deep end, and if something doesn't happen right fast the Tybee Theater will go to Grayden Russell.” Steffy Lou swiped away a tear. “I just can't let that happen. I'll have to figure something out. She looked back to me. “I hate to ask, but I'd be mighty grateful if you'd lend a hand.”

“Steffy Lou, if I had a spare dime, you'd be the first person I'd give it to.”

She smiled oh-so-sweetly, just like a true Southern belle. “Not that, honey. I just need to sit with somebody and chat a spell. I know you're tied up with trying to find Walker innocent, but maybe together we can come up with a way to save the theater. You were so helpful with the Odilia chant. I'll have Blanch make us up a batch of her shortbread cookies. They are truly divine.”

“Does eight work for you?” How could I say no to Steffy Lou after all she'd been through, and of course there were
shortbread cookies to consider and seeing the Hampton Lillibridge House up close and personal.

“Why, that will be perfect.” Steffy Lou brightened and started for the driver's side, then turned back. “Tucker's a lot of things, you know, but he's no killer. He didn't do in his own daddy. He simply doesn't have it in him. Tucker's all show and bluster, and a bit of a drunk at times. If we put our heads together, maybe we can figure out who's responsible for these terrible murders. I never did like that Russell person, maybe because he's after my theater, but there's just something about him you can't trust.”

Steffy Lou drove off, and I caught up with Dinky cleaning her desk off the floor. “And here I thought working at a law office was drama. Lordy, honey, if I worked here I'd be on Prozac in no time at all.”

Except for the busted fax machine and broken lamp, we got Dinky back in business in the kitchen. Auntie KiKi buzzed in for a second to say she and Uncle Putter were doing a charity golf outing at Sweet Marsh Country Club and not to have fun while she was gone. By four Dinky declared her nerves totally shot, that she couldn't put two intelligent thoughts together if her life depended on it, and she was headed for home with a good bottle of wine.

I gussied up Gwendolyn in chic business attire and set her behind a desk in the display window, then added a “Furniture for Sale” banner that I ran off on Dinky's printer. I missed selling cute clothes, I really did, but there was no use in taking them in if all my customers were at the boutique shopping their little ol' hearts out.