Killer in Crinolines (14 page)

“H
OLY
mother in heaven!” Chantilly took a step back and smashed right into me; we both made the sign of the cross. “You were right about someone being in here.”

“Not exactly what I had in mind.” I used two hands to hold the light steady.

“Who is it?”

“Waitress at the Pirate House. She was at the wedding and found Simon dead right before I did. She was all upset.”

“Yeah, well, dead bodies have that effect. Think she sent me the text?”

“I think someone who wanted us to find her sent the text and now I hear sirens. We’ve got to get out of here right now.”

Chantilly pointed at the body, a defiant look in her eyes. “But we’re innocent. We didn’t do this.”

“You used that same line four days ago and yet here we are again. Not a good place to be.” I doused the flashlight and using my shirttail swiped off the doorknob inside, grabbed Chantilly’s arm and pulled her out into the hall, closed the door, and wiped the outside knob. The sirens stopped; car doors slamming out front. “We’re trapped!”

“Back entrance.” I followed Chantilly down a hallway leading away from the street, our footsteps muffled by the carpet. Chantilly shoved on a door taking us to a fenced-in area, an ancient fluorescent light suspended overhead from a phone pole. Sirens approached down the alley, our only way out. I nodded at the Dumpster.

“It’s August!” Chantilly hissed, eyes huge.

Translation: Bugs, vermin, smells from the depths of hell.

“Jail.” I hissed.

Translation: Cavity search, group showers, Brunhilde as a roomie.

We scrambled over the edge, landing on filled garbage bags as a cruiser pulled to a screeching stop outside the Dumpster, sirens echoing off the rusting metal. I could feel Chantilly shaking next to me. Least I told myself it was Chantilly. Something crawled up my leg and I put my hand over my mouth to smother a scream.

“Why did I let you talk me into this?” Chantilly whimpered.

I glanced at her and the biggest roach I’d ever seen—and I’d seen my share—had perched itself on her head. Another climbed up one of her curls. Something furry sat on a garbage bag behind her. My hand landed in something gooey and I jumped, knocking into another bag that broke open spilling garbage over both of us. Chantilly peered at me, eyes horrified.

“I won’t tell what’s crawling on you if you don’t tell me.” I whispered.

I peeled lettuce from my nose and peeked over the edge to the empty cruiser, lights still strobing, no one around. Taking hold of Old Yeller, I hoisted one leg over the edge, then slid down the side of the Dumpster, Chantilly landing beside me. Breathing hard, we flattened ourselves against the building and I glanced down the alley to make sure no cops were coming late to the party. Sidestepping our way around the edge of the building, I peeked to the front now congested with cruisers and sleepy people wandering out onto the sidewalk.

We ducked behind a line of azaleas, all foliage and no flowers this time of year. “We need to look natural,” I said knocking a palmetto bug and her family from Chantilly’s shoulder as she did some swiping at my hair.

Chantilly swallowed. “Natural? We’re covered in garbage and other things I don’t want to even think about that are gross and horrible and terrifying and we smell like a sewer.”

Actually we smelled way worse than a sewer. I got a stick and flicked a long-haired crawly from Chantilly’s shorts. She took the stick from my hand and whacked at my back. “Do you think the cops are looking for us?”

“Maybe.” Before she could ask more questions with bad answers I took her hand and ran down another alley of garbage cans, dark windows, and a dog. Not a sweet mini-something who escaped from his loving owner and wanted to go home, but a street dog, saliva drooling from his mouth and pissed that we were on his turf.

“This is what happens when you run from the cops,” Chantilly sniffed, tears in her eyes. “The gods line up against you and you get eaten alive by something with big teeth.” Step by step we backed up, dog following with his head down, eyes focused, licking his chops.

“Last time this happened I had a package of shrimp and fed an alligator.”

“Alligator?”

“It’s been a rough week.” I scooped the remains of a mangled taco off my shorts. “Here doggie, doggie, doggie. Here it is, the great surprise.”

Crouched and ready for attack, doggie came closer, our gazes met, his on fire for me and not in a lovey-dovey way. I tossed down the taco and the dog lunged for it as Chantilly and I ran past him to the Jeep across the street. Chantilly beeped the car open and we scrambled inside, collapsing in the seats, gasping for air. I stomped on a roachy thing that fell off one of us.

“My car will never be the same.”

“Just hang one of those little air freshener things from your mirror and you’ll be fine.”

“This is a nightmare.” Chantilly whammed a bug with her fists, the impact popping the glove compartment open. “I’ll never be fine again.” She charged up the Jeep as a tear slid down her face cutting across a smear of gravy, or another brown sticky substance I didn’t have the courage to name.

“Hey, we’re going to find this killer. We have more to go on now. My guess is that Suellen saw who murdered Simon and was trying to blackmail him or her. They wouldn’t pay up and killed her instead.”

“She should have just gone to the police.”

“That’s withholding evidence and blackmail, both big no-no’s in the world of Detective Ross and others with shiny badges. The killer followed Suellen to Simon’s and killed her. Then the killer used Suellen’s phone to text you. You’re on the ropes for Simon’s murder. You’re an easy target to take the rap for the second. My guess is that your phone number is in the missing notebook that the killer has. Setting you up to take the fall for killing Suellen was a piece of cake.”

Chantilly pulled up in front of my house. “Where do we go from here? Any great ideas?”

“I’ll talk to Sugar-Ray tomorrow. He could have easily dressed in the bridesmaid dress and killed Simon. If Suellen was trying to blackmail him, he didn’t have the money to pay her off. He’s a good place to start.”

“Last time we saw Sugar-Ray he was packing heat. I’ll pick you up at nine. He can’t shoot both of us at once.”

I watched the Jeep drive away and kicked off my flip-flops. They were shot. Everything I had on was bug-ridden. I unlocked the front door and started to step inside, then stopped. With the way my luck was running, a pregnant creepy would fall off, hide in the floorboards, and give birth to a bazillion other creepies. It was either risk total embarrassment now and strip on the spot or infest Cherry House forever. I backed into the shadows, ran my hands through my hair to knock lose anything that had taken up housekeeping, ripped off every piece of clothing on my body then grabbed Old Yeller and darted inside. BW gave me one good sniff, barked, and ran for the kitchen. This was the same dog that just a few hours earlier flopped over on his back for the Savannah Strangler. Not a good omen.

I grabbed the baseball bat I kept beside the front door and the three of us—me, Old Yeller, and the bat—headed upstairs. Turning the shower on full hot, I grabbed the bat in one hand, then dumped my purse upside down into the tub.

Two roaches wandered out. My screams temporarily immobilized them till I pulverized the little dears. I swished their remains down the drain, giving them a burial at sea. I joined my purse in the shower—bet you can’t do that with one of those fancy Coach bags—lathered and shampooed every inch of me and Old Yeller thrice. I wrapped in a towel, called BW in to have another whiff. After two more barking sessions and retreats to the kitchen, I finally declared myself Dumpster free, set my alarm for 8:45, and collapsed into bed just as the sun peeked over the cherry tree in the front yard.

• • •

The next morning my hair looked like it got caught in the blender, if I had one. After five shampoos, all the conditioners in the world couldn’t save me from the wild woman of Borneo look. Using my chicken-turning tongs I pinched my clothes off the porch. Holding them at arm’s length to keep Dumpster inhabitants as far away as possible, I tossed them into the garbage can, then dropped in the tongs for good measure. I couldn’t fry chicken for diddly anyway.

At nine sharp the red Jeep motored up to the curb and I opened the door to a rush of lavender and vanilla. A sleepy-looking Chantilly handed me take-out coffee.

“I scrubbed and Febreezed for an hour last night,” she said. “Left the car open to air it out and stomped two more leftover cockroaches on the way here. I think we’re good to go.”

I took the passenger side. That Chantilly didn’t comment on the status of my hair made me rethink what it looked like the rest of the time. I pried off my coffee lid. Bug free. In spite of my hair and questionable infestation of the Jeep, today was already better than yesterday.

Chantilly put the car in gear. “Google says Sugar-Ray’s got his marriage counseling office over there on MLK. We need a nonthreatening approach to get him talking.”

“Since I’m divorced and Simon is pushing up daisies, coming in for marital advice isn’t going to work for either of us. I’ll think of something.”

But when we walked into the office building and followed the directory to Sugar-Ray’s office on the second floor my brain cells still weren’t functioning, and I no idea how to get Sugar-Ray to spill his guts. The office was small but smartly furnished with a contemporary flair of cream and celery green, Ikea with taste and pizzazz. There was no one in the reception area so I knocked on the desk. “Hello?”

Sugar-Ray stepped out from a connecting door. I got a better look of him now than at the cemetery. Wavy hair, gym build, beige suit, and yellow silk Versace tie I recognized from a Nordstrom catalog KiKi brought over to keep me abreast of fashions for the Fox.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Hi.” I gave him a little friendly hand wave. “I know it’s been a while but if we could just talk to you for a few minutes, Chantilly and I would really appreciate it.”

I got the blank stare. “My receptionist doesn’t come in till noon.”

“Reagan Summerside? High school? The prom?” Worse night of my life and that included the one in the Dumpster.

“Reagan!” Sugar-Ray forced a smile. Guess the prom didn’t hold fond memories for him either. We followed Sugar-Ray back to his office, the décor a continuation of the reception area. I took one green club chair, Chantilly sat in the other, and Sugar-Ray parked behind his glass desk, a spray of cream and green orchids on the end pulling the color scheme together.

“You know,” he said, looking at Chantilly, then me. “I never expected to see you here.”

“Yeah, neither of us have great track records in the marital department.”

“Sometimes there’s a reason things don’t work out and we have to keep that in mind.”

I nodded trying to build a rapport. “Hollis, my ex, was cheating on me and Chantilly got dumped and the guy’s now dead, just one of those things.”

“And then you found each other?”

“Reagan’s been a great friend,” Chantilly said and gave me a sincere smile.

“Sometimes there are explanations, very personal private explanations why one relationship works and one doesn’t.” Sugar-Ray came around his desk and put his hand on my shoulder and Chantilly’s. He gazed down at me, his smile sweet. “Failure in one relationship doesn’t mean all your relationships are doomed to end badly. You need to keep that in mind.”

Chantilly scoffed, “I’m just swearing off men.”

I added, “The last one I dated kissed like a lizard.”

“That’s because you were with men who didn’t have your best interest at heart. You belong together, it’s the way things are meant to be, and don’t let anyone tell you differently. I know it’s hard, but you came to the right place to talk things over. I understand, I truly do.”

My eyes fused with Chantilly’s. Oh holy mother! “No,” I said, jumping to my feet, Chantilly shaking her head, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish but no words coming out. “We”—I pointed to Chantilly, then myself—“are not together like
that
. It would be fine if we were, of course.” I added, rambling on, “Chantilly is kind of cute and all and I wouldn’t mind having access to her wardrobe, but no.”

“You’re not a couple? As in together?” Sugar-Ray glanced back and forth. “Then why are you here before office hours? I assumed this liaison was something you wanted to keep quiet.”

“We saw you out at Bonaventure Cemetery at Marguerite Laveau’s,” I blurted. “Waverly, money, Simon, white rum. What was that all about? And what’s with the gun? It’s a cemetery, they’re already dead.”

Chantilly put her hands on her hips and cut her hand thought the air. “That is without a doubt the worse excuse for clever I ever heard.”

“The couple thing caught me off guard,” I said as Sugar-Ray’s eyes morphed from understanding and sympathetic light blue to bone-chilling navy.

“So I was at Bonaventure,” Sugar-Ray said in a flat voice. “So what, a lot of people go there to see Marguerite. My business with her certainly doesn’t concern the likes of you two.”