Read Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) Online
Authors: Duffy Brown
Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) (10 page)
“What about church?” I asked.
“What about it.”
“It’s Sunday morning; we should go.”
KiKi leaned over my bed, a huge scowl on her face. “Your answer to leaving me out in the cold and taking up with Mercedes is hauling me off to church?”
“We need to meet up with Marigold, and she’s a lector at the ten o’clock Mass. I think Butler may be involved with Seymour, and I want to see if she knows anything about it. Talking with her is a whole lot easier than chatting it up with her storm trooper husband.”
KiKi put her hands to her hips. “You’re patronizing me, aren’t you? You have yourself a new buddy, and I’m just yesterday’s news. Church?” She added a harrumph for good measure.
How could I feel so guilty about not including my auntie in a burglary and nearly getting eaten by a dog? It was the Savannah way. No one did guilt-tripping better than an excluded Southern family member. Obviously excluded from what didn’t matter.
“We still need to go to the savings and loan and find out about Cazy. We can do that tomorrow. Bet they still have some toasters.”
KiKi folded her arms and tapped her foot. “That’s nothing like sneaking into Dozer’s office, and that’s what you did if you’re sending me emails from there at night.”
“Rachelle Lerner’s a caterer. She hated Scummy and doesn’t care much for Mamma. I’m hoping Chantilly got a job with her, but just in case that falls through, we can order dinner and chat with her. She does a mean potpie.”
“Potpie is no match for sneaking.”
“We can talk to Delray Valentine, Scummy’s campaign manager. I bet Valley will be mean as a snake and twice as rude when we ask him a bunch of irritating, nosy questions. That could be exciting.”
“He sells insurance for crying out loud. Is there anything more boring than insurance?” KiKi let out a deep sigh. “All right, all right, I’ll go to church. Pretty sad state of affairs when church is the most exiting thing on the list. I need to go anyway with all the half-truths I’ve been handing Putter lately. Think God will forgive me?”
“I think the question is will Uncle Putter if he finds out?”
• • •
THE CATHEDRAL OF ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST WAS
across from Lafayette Square. It had twin spires because one just wasn’t good enough, gorgeous marble columns, terrific stained-glass windows, and the baptismal font in the back where I was baptized. At Christmastime the place was decked out with a manger, greenery, and a huge red poinsettia tree.
For the next forty-five minutes I let my mind drift through church, thinking of how I should get here more often and I’d really appreciate any help God could spare in getting Mamma off the hook. I also told Him to watch out for Seymour ’cause he had a nasty side and could ruin the neighborhood.
“I don’t see Marigold anywhere,” KiKi said to me over the thundering pipe organ as we came out onto the steps, sunlight and a cloudless sky making it a perfect day in Savannah. “We know she was here because she did a reading. She didn’t look real happy up there at the lectern.”
“That’s ’cause she had to pronounce Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. That’s enough to distress anyone.”
KiKi nodded to the side. “There’s Detective Ross. Talk about someone down in the mouth; she looks plum miserable. Maybe we should go cheer her up?”
“Uh, she tossed you and Mamma in the slammer and has had me down at the police station more than once. I don’t think cheer is a word she associates with the Summerside family.”
KiKi tsked and made the sign of the cross. “We should at least try and console the poor girl, this being a church-going Sunday and all, and the sermon about helping out when needed. Besides, we haven’t done anything this morning she can arrest us for.” KiKi thought for a moment. “Have we?”
“Good morning,” I said to Ross, KiKi offering a big smile. “You have the weekend off?” Idle chitchat with Ross felt really weird. Usually our conversations were Ross saying something like,
Dear God, it’s you again,
and me responding with
I didn’t do it, I swear
.
Startled, Ross looked around, probably searching for a dead body since KiKi and I were here. “I might have the rest of my life off with this new detective they brought in from Atlanta. He’s trying to make me look bad.” Ross opened her big purse and yanked out a glazed doughnut. She took a bite, eyes fogging over, grin and icing on her lips, a satisfied sigh escaping around a mouthful.
“Want one,” she mumbled, holding her purse wide open to reveal six more doughnuts snuggled in right next to her gun. “They’re from Cakery Bakery, of course. GracieAnn’s doing a right fine job with the place these days.” Ross brushed flecks of glaze from her blue suit. “I gotta go. GracieAnn said she’d have a fresh batch done by the time I got out of church. Chocolate with chocolate icing.” Ross scampered down the steps.
“Is it just my imagination,” KiKi wondered aloud, “or is her backside getting bigger? The seams on that there suit of hers are straining to keep the girl under wraps. Can’t imagine how such a thing can happen in just a few days.”
“It’s the way of the doughnut.” I knew from personal experience.
My name is Reagan, and I’m addicted to sprinkle doughnuts
. On more than one occasion I’d walked blocks out of my way not to pass Cakery Bakery and add unwanted poundage. “Looks like Ross is a stress eater,” I said. “She’s going to gain back all that weight she lost. Seems a pity.”
“Except you got to admit she’s a lot nicer with a doughnut in her mouth and five more in her purse. She didn’t even try to arrest us.” KiKi nodded toward Lafayette Square. “There’s Marigold sitting on a bench staring at the ground. Looks like she could do with one of Ross’s doughnuts.”
“Are you all right?” I asked Marigold as KiKi and I parked beside her, the fountain in the middle of the square happily splashing from one tier to the next. “You don’t look so good. Is there anything we can do to help?”
“You bet there is,” Marigold said, fire in her eyes. “You can hand me a big old shotgun and stand back ’cause I’m going to put Butler Haber in the ground if it’s the last thing I do.” Marigold strangled her purse as if practicing for the event. “That jackass has done ruined our lives. I told him and told him not to do something stupid and get involved with Seymour, but did he listen? Heck no.”
“Men never listen,” KiKi offered. “Besides, Seymour’s dead as a roach on the steps. We can all go toss rocks at his grave if it’ll make you feel better.”
“Only if we can put Money-Honey in that coffin right there beside him. Did you know she’s taking over the construction company? Called Butler last night, the very night her husband is planted in the ground, mind you, to tell him it’s going to be business as usual.”
Time to go fishing. “What business?” I asked.
“When things were bad, Butler burned through our savings then cut lumber prices to attract business, but Seymour wanted more and more cuts. Honey is doing the same thing. We’re doomed.”
“So just refuse to sell to her.”
“You’d think that would be the answer, except Butler says Seymour has him over a barrel. I’m done leaving things up to Butler. I’m taking the situation into my own hands and getting them done right.”
“Like lighting candles at church?”
“Like going to see Odilia.”
KiKi sucked air through clenched teeth, and we all three huddled closer together on the bench. In New Orleans such things were laughed and joked about and bought as souvenirs. In Savannah we knew better. Last year Buffy Codetta went to see Odilia, and three weeks later her abusive, rotten, fit-as-a-fiddle mother-in-law drove her brand new Lincoln right off the Savannah River bridge, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of her or the Lincoln since.
“What did Odilia say?” KiKi asked, her voice just above a whisper.
“Drop the money in the jar on the table, put a basket of eggplants and eight colorful stones from the earth at Seymour’s place of business, and come back tonight after midnight for more instructions.”
Marigold opened her hand to eight rocks sitting in her palm. “I found these under the bench just now. Think they’ll do?”
“This here is a piece of dirty glass,” KiKi said, changing it out for a pinkish rock she found beside her. “That should work nicely.”
Marigold dropped the stones in a white lace hanky then put them in her purse and snapped it closed. She tucked the purse tightly under her arm. “I best be getting to the grocery store before they’re all out of eggplants and baskets. Got my eye on some pink lacy ribbon to make the basket look good. We got tough times here, lots of people needing eggplants and baskets and ribbons these days.”
Marigold took off across the square, and KiKi waited a beat then said, “This has got something to do with you at Dozer’s last night doesn’t it? Butler has the lumberyard, Dozer’s a contractor, and so is Seymour. What in the world did you find out?” She gave me the evil-auntie eye. “And I’m not budging from this here spot till you tell me what’s going on with those three.”
Here’s the deal. I could lie and say I didn’t find out anything at Dozer’s, or I could make something up, but KiKi would know because I sucked at lying. She’d get all bent out of shape and be more ticked off than she already was, and she just might go off and snoop around on her own. God forbid! That’s how she wound up on that fire escape the last time we played find-the-killer.
“I’m going to tell you what I know, which isn’t much, and I have a lot of questions, and you can’t go off half-cocked and get in trouble and—”
“Oh for crying in a bucket, you’re worse than Congress. Will you just get to the point?”
“That attachment I sent to you is for Seymour Construction projects. That’s it.”
“You think I just fell off the cabbage truck? What’s the rest?”
“There was also a manila folder in Dozer’s desk with a picture of a stamp lumber yards use to grade wood along with articles on buildings with structural problems. Seymour buildings.”
I pulled the copies from my purse and spread them across Old Yeller balanced on my lap. “This stamp says this wood is suitable for construction. The higher the number the lower the grade; spruce is nice for a Christmas tree but not so much for building. I don’t know what the connection is, but there’s something going on.”
KiKi picked up the newspaper copies and studied them for a second. “I say we contemplate this tonight over a big pitcher of martinis, but right now we got other problems, like the Fox opens in ten minutes and you know your mamma’s itching to redo that display in the front bay window.”
“Oh Lordy, not the front window.” I jumped up, and we hurried for the car. “Maybe we can head her off. You never warned me about the color issue, you know.”
“Gloria and I shared a room for a while growing up,” Auntie KiKi explained. “It was her chartreuse and plum phase. Who do you think talked her into being a judge?”
KiKi beeped open the Batmobile. “We can’t be discussing any of this Dozer stuff in front of your mamma. It’ll worry her to death if she thinks we’re nosing around on her behalf.”
I nodded in agreement and tried to figure out how to keep KiKi from the nosing part as well. The problem was, if there was another Mercedes occurrence and KiKi wasn’t included, I’d wind up worm food in her rose garden. KiKi got in the driver’s side, and Boone beat me to the handle on the passenger side. He put his arm across the opening, jaw set, eyes lit with fire, suggesting more Tony Soprano than Fabio.
“You got something against turning thirty-three?”
“I
’M
not in the mood for a lecture,” I said to Boone, the breeze ruffling through the trees and messing my hair. Not that it looked great to begin with, but I did do the mousse and blow-dry regime in honor of church.
“Someone should chain you to the radiator and throw away the key. You’re corrupting my cleaning lady.”
“You don’t have anything to clean, and we were taking a walk is all.”
“Out by Delany Construction? One of the top scenic spots in Savannah for sure. You should have stayed on the street side of Dozer’s fence. The man’s real protective of his establishment.”
“How do you know we didn’t?”
“Dog inside, empty hot dog wrappers, recipe for meatloaf on the back of a Kroger receipt left behind and the checkout girl remembering exactly who she gave that recipe to. Dozer was mighty proud of himself last night at the Cemetery for tracking you down. Now you’ve pissed off Dozer and Archie Lee. Maybe you should think about taking a vacation.”
Boone folded his arms and leaned against the car. “That guy in the suit who stopped you last night is the detective from Atlanta taking Ross’s place. He was out doing a ride-along to get a feel for the city. He wanted to know who Ann Taylor was. He thinks you’re cute.”
I did the palms-up who-me gesture. “Ann Taylor?”
“That purse you lug around and the description of Mercedes don’t leave much to the imagination. He wants to get to know you better, something about inverted turtle. We think you should go out with him. Keep him busy, give him something to do here in Savannah besides get in everyone’s hair.”
“We?”
“The Savannah police department. The guy’s out for glory at your mamma’s expense and is trying to make Ross and the department look inept in the process.”
“So now I’m a decoy, a distraction?”
“For the greater good.”
I studied Boone for a second, mulling over the Suit situation. “And there’s the part that if I’m with the Suit I’m out of
your
hair. What happens when he finds out Ann Taylor is Gloria Summerside’s daughter? Won’t he be a little ticked off that he’s been played?”
“Who’s going to tell him? All I want to do is keep this guy busy while I nail the killer. As far as he’s concerned it’s a done deal. Your mamma did the deed, and he’s not even looking at anyone else. He got a search warrant for Gloria’s house and found a copy of
Pretty Poisonous Posies
and a hand shovel next to two shriveled-up foxglove plants in her garden shed. Like someone was digging in a hurry.”
“That shed isn’t locked, and Mamma would never leave her garden tools for days on end without cleaning up the mess, and she’d never own such a book. Bet they didn’t find fingerprints on that book.”
“They didn’t find prints on anything, chalking it up to the garden gloves.”
“A book would have fingerprints on it. Didn’t it occur to that suited idiot if Mamma killed Seymour, she’d cover her tracks better than this? How stupid does this guy think a criminal judge is? He’s got to see that the stuff in the shed is pretty thin evidence.”
“He sees this as another nail in Gloria’s coffin. Just keep him busy, will you? Entertain him. Charm him. Take him to dinner and tell him Savannah stories. Lie. I don’t care what the heck you do with him, just do something. I have a few leads, but I need time without him sniffing around where he doesn’t belong.”
What leads?
I wanted to know, and it wasn’t going to happen. Boone looked at me for a second then trudged off. He stopped halfway down the block, paused, and came back. He ran his hand over his buzzed hair. “Forget it. Forget I said anything about meeting up with him. I don’t want you messing with that guy.”
“You think he’s dangerous.”
“No. Maybe.” Boone tucked the strap of Old Yeller under the collar of my denim jacket and smoothed it down, his fingers warm at my throat, his eyes more soft than serious, “One More Night” playing in the back of my brain, slowly melting me into a big dish of oatmeal.
“He’s an arrogant ass,” Boone added, his voice without the edge. “I don’t want you around that guy. I’ll figure out something else to keep him occupied while he’s here, but stay out of trouble for a while. I can’t keep an eye on you and the suit, and find the killer, too.”
“Let me help.”
“Not going to happen, Blondie. Go sell some dresses and shoes.”
Boone hustled off and I yelled after him, “I hate when you tell me to sell dresses and shoes.”
He turned; the grin was back. “Really?”
I got in the car and slammed the door.
“What was that all about?” KiKi asked, edging out into the light Sunday traffic, a bank of dark clouds now crowding out the sun.
“Boone being Boone. He wanted me to make goo-goo eyes at some detective guy from Atlanta then said to forget it, that he’d take care of things all by himself. I swear I think the man’s having some kind of mid-thirties breakdown; he doesn’t know what the heck he wants. Do this, do that, don’t do this, don’t do that. I’m Mr. Wonderful, I can take care of everything by myself, and you can go sell dresses and shoes. He needs therapy or maybe a good swift kick in the rump for the dresses-and-shoes crack.”
“He’s a good lawyer, you know, and a good dancer.”
The rest of my tirade died in my throat. “How do you know about the dancing? The kids tell you?” I puffed out a breath of exasperation. “The kids didn’t have to tell you because every woman east of the Mississippi probably knows Boone’s a good dancer in and out of the bedroom.”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly what?” I cut my gaze to KiKi, waiting for the rest of the story, but all I got from her was a sassy auntie smile as she turned into her driveway. At one time my dear auntie KiKi would have hog-tied Boone and thrown him in the Savannah River for the way he handled my divorce. Then he saved her bacon in the great fire escape caper and now she thought he was the second coming.
The front door of the Fox stood wide open, and BW rushed out, tail wagging, to meet us. Mamma stood on a stepladder in the bay window doing something with orange and lilac that would make Ralph Lauren weep.
“Thought I’d get a head start on the day,” Mamma said, as KiKi and I came inside, a few customers filing in behind us, staring at the bay window in disbelief. Mamma rubbed her arms. “Better close the door; the weather’s changing. Going to be colder today.”
“We were at church,” KiKi volunteered.
Mamma did a double take and nearly fell off the stool. “So that’s what’s brought on the change in the weather. Probably snow tomorrow.”
KiKi retaliated with a sarcastic sibling eye roll and added, “Marigold was there. She said Honey is taking over Seymour Construction.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” Mamma put a lavender scarf to a Kelly jacket. “She’ll do well; she has drive and ambition and . . .” Mamma looked around to see if anyone was listening, then added in a lower voice, “She’s just as mean, ornery, and cantankerous as her husband.”
I got the daily cash for the Fox out of the Reagan vault, also known as the rocky road container. I transferred the money to my Godiva chocolate box I kept at the counter. Cheap, functional, and it smelled like dessert when I made a sale.
KiKi wrote up a sale for two customers at the counter, and three more customers came in the front door. Mamma hung up clothes from the dressing room. Business! I felt a little less panicked about the heating bills soon to be gracing my mailbox as Chantilly strolled in hand in hand with Pillsbury. Shoppers paused, Pillsbury’s black leather jacket with dollar signs embroidered on the back, boots, and muscle-bound physique not those of the typical customer to frequent the Prissy Fox.
“I got that job with Rachelle Lerner,” Chantilly said as the two came up to the checkout door. “Her shop is as cute as a button. It has a few tables for eating, but it’s mostly catering and carryout. I’m already working. I dropped off quiches, sticky buns, and fruit salad to the First Baptist Church on Bull Street this morning and helped them get things organized for their brunch. Rachelle makes dynamite sticky buns, even better than my mamma’s, but you can’t be telling my mamma that. Problem is Rachelle’s hurting for business, and I don’t know why. Her menu is perfection.”
Pillsbury drew Chantilly a little closer, the dopey, happy grin on the badass man of the hood a little startling. “This girl of mine is off the hook,” he said in his deep baritone voice that sort of vibrated clear through the floorboards. “Scrambled eggs and French toast.” Pillsbury kissed Chantilly on the cheek. “Babe.”
“That means she’s a good cook,” I translated for KiKi then asked Chantilly, “Did you learn anything?”
“You bet. I’m a natural at mac and cheese, and you should see me whisk egg whites. Beat those suckers into shape in no time. I think I found my calling.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Rachelle doing you-know-what to you-know-who.” I leaned across the checkout door. “Let me know if she mentions anything about a guy named Dozer or Butler Haber.”
“Haber?” Pillsbury’s brows drew tight together, his face hard, mean, scary, and back to badass. Not the kind of guy you want to meet up with all alone in an alley. Whatever Butler did he shouldn’t have.
“Bad dude,” Pillsbury added. “Big Joey helped fix up a house. Last week the woman fell through the steps and busted a hip. Had to vacate the premises; she’s in a wheelchair. Haber thinks poor folk are stupid ’cause they don’t live in some fancy digs. He gives them cheap wood for prime prices. Bad business that.” Pillsbury shook his head. “Real bad business.”
“Why do you think the wood’s bad?” I asked Pillsbury. “Maybe it was something else. It could be the weather or even termites?”
He shook his head. “Wood don’t rot like that in a few years unless something’s wrong with it.”
“What’s going on?” Mamma asked, bringing a customer up to the counter to check out a dress and shoes. Mamma stopped dead when she saw Pillsbury. Oh boy, it was going to be one of those didn’t-I-send-your-best-friend-to-prison confrontations, and things would get ugly fast.
“Well now, if you aren’t the spitting image of Gerome Morehead,” Mamma said to Pillsbury. “He used to do my taxes till he retired some years back and moved off to Arizona. He’s a true wizard with numbers. Saved me a bundle, I can tell you that. I sure do miss him.”
“He’s my granddaddy.” Pillsbury beamed. “Did he ever play his ukulele for you?”
“‘Sweet Georgia Brown’ was my favorite. Tell him I said hello, now, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am, I sure will.” Pillsbury took Mamma’s small hand in his much larger one and gave her an ear-to-ear smile that warmed the heart. Mamma was the one woman who never ceased to amaze me.
KiKi was busy in the afternoon with a secret cha-cha lesson with the Danforths so they could show up the Reynolds at the next country club shindig. That was followed up by another secret cha-cha lesson with the Reynolds so they could show up the Danforths. It was the year of the great Savannah cha-cha wars.
Mamma and I were busy as ants at a picnic with customers and sales, and we locked up the Fox at five sharp. “I have dinner with the judges filling in for me,” Mamma said. “I’ll be back bright and early tomorrow morning.”
I gave Mamma a big hug. “We’re going to straighten this out, and you’ll get your courtroom back, and then we’ll give Archie Lee a run for his money.”
She kissed me on the cheek. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“Because you trust the system.”
“Of course, and if I’m not alderman, worse things have happened.” She glanced around the shop. “You have a nice business here. The displays were a little shoddy until I came along, but you’ve done well. You’re going to need some help. Maybe I’ll take early retirement and come lend a hand. I had fun today.”
Mamma collected her purse, and I followed her out onto the porch. She headed for her black Caddy parked across the street. “Okay, God,” I said while waving Mamma off as she drove down Gwinnett. “I did the church thing this morning, I was even nice to Ross and didn’t take her doughnuts, and now you hit me with Mamma working at the Fox?” I rolled my eyes skyward. “Are you having a good time up there or what?”
I gave BW a potty break, cleaned up after him like a good doggie mommy, then grabbed my denim jacket from inside. The two of us headed for KiKi’s, me looking forward to martinis, BW looking forward to handouts from the fridge. At my house food was pretty much the great unknown . . . do I have some or not? At KiKi’s the fridge was Southern cooking at it’s finest packed in Tupperware, and the golf ball cookie jar was always full of something chocolate.