Gone With a Handsomer Man (16 page)

“If you won’t let me stay there, I’ll have to find an apartment.”

“So get one,” Red Butler said.

“It’s not that simple.” I felt the heat rise to my face. “I’ve got to watch my pennies.”

“What’s Miss Dora’s connection to the Spencer-Jackson?” Coop asked.

“She decorated it.”

“That’s a non sequitur, Teeny.” Coop grinned.

“And she was married to Bing’s daddy. She’s a Jackson.”

“Now that Bing’s dead, will his property go to her?”

“I don’t know. Apparently Bing’s got a sister.” I paused. “Look, I don’t like the Spencer-Jackson House, but it won’t hurt if I stay a day or two. I can’t go back to Bonaventure. I’m trapped in Charleston. I don’t have a job. I’m looking, but it’s scary.”

Coop gave me the key to his Mustang. He and T-Bone followed in the truck, with Red Butler lagging behind in a white van. I turned down Palm Boulevard, then veered right onto the Isle of Palms Connector. As I sped through the marsh, shorebirds flew up in dark commas. Bing had kicked me out of the Spencer-Jackson House. If he knew I was headed there now, he’d rise from the mortuary slab and haunt my ass.

When I turned onto East Bay Street, the “For Sale” sign gleamed in the afternoon light. I parked at Adgers and got out of the car. I hurried across the street and unlocked the entrance gate, trying to shake the feeling that something was off kilter.

T-Bone’s nails ticked over the floor as he ran into the hall, trailed by Coop and Red Butler. Both men gazed up at the curved staircase. “Nice digs, girlie,” Red Butler said.

I dropped my keys into the bowl. “It’s the funniest thing,” I said, “but the keys to this house went missing the other day. I’d put them right in this bowl. But after the air conditioning men left, the keys were gone.”

“You think the HVAC men got them?” Red Butler asked.

“No. Maybe.” I looked at the staircase. Saffron light fell through the arched window and hit the paintings, throwing shadows over the frowning women. What had disappointed them? Bad hair days or bad men in their beds?

“You see that beige Camry down the street?” Red Butler pointed to the window. “Two of Charleston’s finest are on a stakeout.”

“I don’t like this,” Coop said. “Why don’t I leave T-Bone with you?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, hoping I sounded brave.

“Plus, I’ll be in my van,” Red Butler said. “I’ll keep an eye on your girlie.”

“I’m only fifteen miles away.” Coop picked up my hand. “I’ll call when I get home—wait, what’s your number?”

“Don’t call,” Red Butler said. “Line’s tapped.”

“Give it to me anyway.”

I found a notepad in the hall table and wrote down my number.

“While you’re at it, here’s mine.” Red Butler handed me a business card.
RED BUTLER HILL, PRIVATE INVESTIGATING SINCE 1980
. “Just let me check the house for little green HVAC men, and I’ll be off.”

“Wait.” I tore off a piece of paper and started to write down my number, but he waved. “Got it already. Thanks.”

He headed upstairs, presumably to check closets and under the beds. Coop opened the back door and peered into the garden. T-Bone loped over the grass. Coop whistled but the dog wouldn’t come.

“Don’t worry, he can’t get out,” I said. “The garden is walled. Wait, there’s a gate in the back. Just let me check and see if it’s shut.”

“Hold on.” Coop put his hand over mine. He pulled me into the garden, around the hydrangeas, into a shadowy corner. “When this is over, I’m taking a long break,” he said. “Let’s stay in bed for a month.”

He pressed me against the stucco wall. It was still warm from the scorching heat. His hands moved under my hair, up to my face, and he kissed me. His belt buckle pressed into my stomach. We broke for air, then he covered my lips with short, sweet kisses, each one ending with a satisfying smack. The sounds floated around us like tiny peeping birds.

T-Bone nuzzled between us, his tail thumping against my leg. I heard whistling. It was coming from the second floor. I glanced up. Through the dense net of branches, I saw movement, and a corner of the iron balcony railing.

“Anybody down there?” he called.

Coop pulled back.

“Hey, T-Bone,” Red Butler called. “Where’s the boss? He down there?”

Coop tilted his head. “Can’t you see us?”

“No,” Red Butler said, leaning farther over the rail. “Sheesh, you better not be bumping no-no parts.”

Coop pulled me against his chest and kissed all around my mouth. I laughed.

“He can’t see us,” I whispered. “We’re invisible.”

Above us, the balcony door creaked shut. I leaned against Coop. “We’ve got less than a minute to do the no-no thing.”

I slipped my tongue into his mouth. He tasted so sweet. My hands moved up to his ears, into his hair. He broke the kiss and pulled back.

“He’s coming down the stairs.” Coop took my hand and we walked back to the house.

“House is clean,” Red Butler said. “No boogeyman. And stop holding hands.”

T-Bone trotted into the foyer, and Coop shut the door. “Do you have an alarm?”

I nodded.

“Use it.”

“You better shove off, Boss. And take the dog. Or the dicks will wonder if you’re banging her. That’s never a good thing, having them wonder.”

“Dicks?” I asked.

“Cops.” Coop squeezed my hand. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bring coffee,” Red Butler called.

I walked them into the brick corridor. They stepped past the iron gate and split in different directions. T-Bone trotted next to Coop as they walked by the beige Camry. I locked the gate and went inside. I rushed around the first floor, closing the wooden shutters. I felt gritty from the beach but was too scared to take a shower. Visions of
Psycho
kept running through my head. I was glad Hitchcock had made that movie in black and white.

I went upstairs and looked out the hall window. The white van was parked at the end of the block—illegally, if Miss Dora had been right about the prepaid parking spaces in this posh neighborhood.

The beige Camry hadn’t moved. Police didn’t have to worry if they took a rich person’s slot. If I were rich and saw Red Butler in my parking space, I’d let him stay. You wouldn’t want to get on his wrong side. But I was. He didn’t like me; I could tell.

The street was filling with blue twilight. Over the rooftops, I saw the harbor, but I was too tired to enjoy the view. I walked to the pink toile room and patted the coverlet. I hadn’t thought I’d ever see it again. I thought about calling Miss Dora, but if my phone really was tapped, it could get ugly. She’d give the police an earful of anti-Bingisms. I’d just wait till tomorrow and pay her a visit, explaining about the tap and asking her to write a note that made it legal for me to stay at the Spencer-Jackson House.

I shut my eyes and tried to make my mind relax but it twirled. My girlish heart had loved Cooper O’Malley forever. This was punishment, a karmic bitch slap for not loving Bing and Aaron the way I should have. A crazy logic was at work, and it had caused me to sleep with the wrong men because I’d abstained from sleeping with the one I’d truly wanted.

But I’d fixed that, right?

Coop phoned twice. Both conversations were short and bland, just a lawyer checking on his client. When the phone rang a third time, I was almost asleep. “Hey,” I said.

Silence.

I sat up, my elbows digging into the mattress. “Hello?” I said. I heard traffic noises in the background. I glanced at the phone. It didn’t have a caller ID display.

“Anyone there?” I said, trying to sound tough. The line clicked. Red Butler and the police were watching the front door, but anybody could sneak into the backyard. I thought about getting up and cooking something called I Didn’t Kill My Boyfriend Cake with I’m a Suspect Icing. I crept out of bed and pushed a dresser in front of the door. Not that it would help, but if someone broke in, they’d make a world of noise.

If you really and truly wanted to kill someone, all you had to do was stick a cigarette up their rear end. No kidding. I saw this on Discovery Channel. The nicotine causes a skippy heartbeat, and the victim stops breathing. Another way to kill someone is with bacon deviled eggs made with homemade mayonnaise. I’d learned this at Food Lion. Botulism can take hours to grow. It causes a toxin, I forget what it’s called, but the victim suffocates. It’s the same thing as Botox, which just goes to show that a good thing can be a bad thing. It just depends on how it’s served.

twenty-two

The following morning, I put on a blue plaid sundress and brushed my hair into a ponytail. I wanted to look extra sharp because I was picking up my bulldog. I’d need to buy a leash, dog food, and treats, but I was running low on cash.

I called Bonaventure Savings and Loan and had my honeymoon money—$2,500.67, to be exact—transferred to First Charleston Bank. But I was stuck in South Carolina until December, and my savings wouldn’t last that long. I had no choice but to sell Aunt Bluette’s farm. I called Lakeside Realty in Bonaventure and asked for Betty Masters. She’d belonged to Aunt Bluette’s sewing-and-prayer circle and she wasn’t the type to ask questions. When Betty picked up, I almost burst into tears. To distract myself, I pinched my arm.

“I’d like to put the farm on the market,” I said.

“I figured you would, seeing as you’re getting married and all,” she said. “But the farm is in bad shape. It’ll take a while to sell in this economy. You might have to take a rock-bottom price.”

“All right,” I said, wiping my eyes on my shirt. Selling the farm at any price was enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. “But I’m stuck in Charleston. Can you mail the contract?”

I made a cup of tea. A little while later, Coop showed up with a bag of McMuffins.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked.

“Better than I thought.” I reached for a McMuffin. “But I did get a hang-up call.”

“Could be a wrong number,” Coop said. “Are you still wanting to pick up your bulldog?”

“I was just fixing to go.”

“I’ll take you.”

“I can drive myself.”

“I’m not questioning your ability, Teeny. Whoever murdered Bing was in his house when you showed up. I’ve got to assume they’re running loose around Charleston. Maybe he—or she—is getting paranoid. Maybe he’s worried you saw him.”

“I wish I had.”

“Before we get Sir, let’s stop by Miss Dora’s,” he said. “I’d like to get a written statement from her. Otherwise, you can’t stay in this house.”

We drove up to Queen Street. Coop parked around the corner, and we walked to Miss Dora’s house. The hipped roof peeked through the trees, and the sun hit the copper chimney pots. As Coop and I got closer, I saw scaffolds on the pavement. A painter squatted by an oleander tree, mixing paint. The iron gate stood open, and I could see into the corridor. It was just like the one at the Spencer-Jackson House, but the red walls made it darker.

I was mindful of the Camry nosing along the sidewalk, so I didn’t grab Coop’s hand. I stepped into the narrow passage and two words blinked behind my eyes: criminal trespassing. Never in my life had I worried about breaking the law—I’d been a Baptist teenager and had grown into a lie-counting adult. Now I questioned everything.

I stopped one of the painters. “Is Miss Dora home?” I asked.

“Is she ever,” he said.

Coop and I passed into the courtyard with its cherub fountain and iron patio furniture. At one end of the house, the French doors stood open. Miss Dora’s shrill voice rose up and she strode into the hall, her rosy silk caftan billowing. She was trailed by Estaurado and a painter with bushy eyebrows.

“Pink!” she said. “For the last time, pink!”

The painter scooted ahead of her. “But Mrs. Jackson, pink’s bad for resale.”

“You say pink like it’s a four-letter word,” she said.

“You need permission from the historical foundation to change your colors,” he said.

“Pshaw. Those hysterics can jump in the harbor.” She whirled. Her eyes widened when she saw me. She flung open her arms, and her bracelets clinked. “There you are! I’ve been worried sick.”

She air-kissed my cheeks and gave Coop an admiring glance. “Sorry for the mess and confusion. I’ve decided to sell this grand old dame. But it’s going to take a whole lot of cosmetic surgery.”

“But you love this house,” I said.

“I do, but it’s just too big. It cries out for a large, rambunctious family. At my age, I need a little pink cottage overlooking a marsh. No yard, no upkeep. No worries. No committee picking my color scheme. It’s the wrong time to sell, but I’m old. I can’t wait for the economy to improve.”

“Miss Dora, I wanted to thank you for posting bail.”

She waved her hand, setting off another series of jingles. “The least I could do. Did you go back to the Spencer-Jackson?”

“Can we talk?” I looked around and lowered my voice. “In private.”

“Oh, dear. This sounds serious.” She crooked her finger. “Come this way, duckies.”

Coop lagged in the hall, shuffling his feet. “I’ll just stay here, if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself, darlin’.” She took my arm. “This is getting more mysterious by the second.”

She led me into the kitchen. It was a formal, majestic room. A crystal chandelier hung from a pink ceiling, casting rosy light on the marble counters and tall white cabinets. She reached for a carton of eggs.

“Estaurado bought these at a farm in Summerville. I was just going to make an omelet. Are you hungry?”

“I just ate.”

“This won’t take a second. Talk to me while I cook.” She opened the carton, but it was empty. “That Spanish bastard got to them first. Estaurado! Get in here, pronto.”

He appeared in the doorway, his face pinched and sallow.

“Estaurado, I’d planned to eat your damn
huevos.
Give them to me now.”

“No, no,” he cried and spread his hands over his privates. “
No comas mis huevos
!”

The painter walked up, laughing. “Miss Dora, you just told him you were going to eat his testicles for breakfast.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Miss Dora cried. “Estaurado, don’t flatter yourself. Come with me, Teeny.”

We walked into the drawing room, which was all done up in raspberry chintz. She closed the pocket doors, then sank into a plaid chair. “Between the painters and Estaurado, I just don’t know how much more I can take. But never mind me. Tell me everything that’s going on, and I do mean everything.”