Read Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) Online
Authors: Duffy Brown
Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) (4 page)
“Girl, you know this ain’t no taxi that picks you up when you feel the need. You’re supposed to get yourself to an official stop and wait like everyone else in this here city for the bus to come to you.”
“Earlene.” I jumped inside so she couldn’t motor on without me. “I have a situation.”
“You always got a situation.” She tipped back her navy uniform cap and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for me to deposit my fare.
“I sort of ran off without my purse, and I need to get to Seventeenth Street.”
“Seventeenth Street?” Her eyes arched over her sunglasses, and the four passengers on board scurried out the rear door. “You need to get yourself somewhere else.”
“I’ll pay you twice tomorrow, I swear.”
More finger drumming, eyes on the fare box, no bus movement.
“I’ll bring you a meatloaf sandwich from Parker’s, throw in a pickle and two chocolate chip cookies.”
I got a tapping foot and a finger jabbing where my money should be. Time was of the essence, and I was getting nowhere. Mamma could be in big trouble right this very minute. “I’ll . . . I’ll fix you up with Big Joey.” Did I really say that?
The finger drumming stopped. Earlene sat back in her cushy seat. “You wouldn’t be stringing old Earlene along just to get your way, now would you? I have brothers. I know where you live.”
“Big Joey and I are tight.” I held up two fingers, crossed them good-buddy style. “I’m going over to his place to ask a favor right now.”
“Well, tickle my giblets and call me Butterball.” Old Gray lurched forward. I grabbed for the nearest silver pole and held on for dear life. “Girl, you done got yourself a deal. Always wanted to be hanging off that man’s arm. He is one fine-looking stud. For some quality time with Big Joey, I can make this baby fly like the wind.”
Ten minutes later, after jumping curbs and scaring the dickens out of a flock of tourists, I arrived at the corner of Seventeenth Street and got me the heck off this thing.
“So when’s Mr. Hot-Stuff going to be giving me a call?” Earlene asked as I leaped to the ground, sheer willpower keeping me from kneeling down and kissing the sidewalk.
“Soon, very soon.” I pictured St. Peter putting a big
X
next to my name for when I got to the Pearly Gates after Big Joey tossed my lifeless carcass in the nearest alligator infested swamp. But I’d deal with all that later. I gave Earlene a little finger wave as she motored off, then headed down Seventeenth Street.
The houses were smaller in this part of town, closer, rougher. Yards were more red clay than green grass. Massive limbs of live oaks draped a green awning over the streets and cracked sidewalks. Spanish moss gave a touch of tired quaintness. Three brothers fell in step behind me. Well, gee whiz, my very own private escort complete with politically incorrect comments accompanying totally gross slurpy sounds.
This would be a little unnerving to a novice Seventeenth Street invader, but I’d been here before. Sometimes it worked out better than others. Big Joey’s house was nestled between two pink crape myrtle trees that would make the Savannah garden club salivate. I climbed the gray weathered stairs to the porch and rapped on the door.
“White woman. What you doing here on my porch?” Joey asked, giving my companions the it’s-cool nod. Today Joey had on Diesel jeans, a green T-shirt that fit like a second skin, showing off well-tuned biceps polished to an Armor All sheen, and sideburns trailing onto his chin. Seventeenth Street Savannah does
The Wire
.
“I need another favor.”
“Do tell.” Joey came out on the porch and parked his very nice backside on the porch railing. “What I get?”
“The gratitude of a criminal judge or at least a criminal judge’s daughter. Ross is arresting Mamma as we speak. She’ll get out on bail, but she’ll be in jail for a few hours, and it may not be good for her health if you get my drift.”
“She should get private accommodations; she’s a judge.”
“But if she doesn’t and she’s in with others who have it in for her . . .”
Big Joey shoved his hands in his pockets. “My cousin’s doing a nickel upstate ’cause of your mamma.”
“Did he deserve it?”
“There is that.” Big Joey slid an iPhone from his pocket and punched around on the screen. “Done. Mamma bear safe and sound. Guillotine Gloria is one hardass, but fair. Besides, she and Boone are tight, and you got to respect that.”
Before I could ask, respect what?, Big Joey looked at his phone and read, “Says Ross is at the courthouse now and some woman is having herself a flat-out hissy fit.” He turned the phone screen my way, showing me the picture.
“That’s my auntie KiKi. I gotta go.”
Big Joey grinned as I hopped down the steps. “Your family never disappoints. Later, babe.”
I headed for West Oglethorpe. To save going around the block I darted in the back door of Ma Hanna’s Chicken and Waffles and out the front door, snagging a chicken leg along the way thanks to my giving Hanna a good price on a Coach purse the other day. I cut across the Civic Center and arrived at the courthouse half dead from overexertion but well fed with my drumstick. Usually the center of our local judicial system was a hubbub of subdued activity, the guilty of Savannah content to keep their sins on the QT. Today, “Leave my sister be!” echoed through the corridors.
Oh sweet Jesus! Kiki had herself spread-eagle across Mamma’s courtroom doors.
“I have to do my job,” Ross said. “That’s why the taxpayers pay me. Back away, Miss KiKi. You’re only making things worse.”
“Never! Like Cher says, ‘Someone has to pay for the frogs and dancing fairies.’”
“What are you doing?” I asked KiKi after I elbowed my way to the front of the crowd. “What do frogs and fairies have to do with anything?”
Auntie KiKi cut her eyes my way. “It’s a mite tense around here in case you didn’t notice. That’s the only Cher quote I could think of. You told me to protect Gloria, and I’m protecting her best I know how. Should have brought along Putter’s nine iron for good measure.”
“I need a doughnut bad,” Ross muttered on a long sigh while rubbing her forehead. She nodded to the officers beside her, and they peeled Auntie KiKi off the doors and put her in handcuffs as Mamma erupted into the hall, black robes trailing behind.
“What in heaven’s name is going on, KiKi? Why are you here? What is this all about?”
“Judge Gloria Summerside,” Ross said, pulling another set of handcuffs from her purse for those days when two bad guys—or gals—had to get hauled off to the poky. “You are under arrest for the murder of Kipling Seymour. You have the right to remain silent . . .”
I lost the rest in a flurry of gasps, picture taking, and the swelling multitude of kibitzers reveling in the irony of a judge getting arrested.
“You can’t do this.” KiKi’s voice ricocheted off the walls. “I’ll sue. I’ll protest. I won’t teach your kids the foxtrot.”
I grabbed Ross’s arm and looked her dead in the eyes. “That’s my mamma and my auntie you’ve got there. You can’t put them both in jail.”
Ross glared at my hand. “You looking to join the party?”
“I don’t care what you do to me, but you can’t lock up my fam—” I was yanked backward into the crowd, my protests dying in my throat as I struggled not to fall on my behind while Ross, the cops, Mamma, and Auntie KiKi paraded on to the slammer.
“L
ET
me go!”
Boone hustled me out of the courthouse through the arched doorway and around the corner to the parking lot. Yanking open the door of the Chevy, he pushed me in. “For your mother’s sake, calm down.”
I shoved against the door, but with big, bad, and ugly leaning against it the door didn’t budge. “What are you doing here?”
“Keeping you out of jail. Any more Summersides arrested today and Ross loses the paperwork and you all spend the night in a concrete room sharing facilities with the underbelly of Savannah society. And Big Joey wants you safe and sound. Something about settling a score over a bus driver sitting on his front porch.”
It wasn’t even ten, and I had my family behind bars and Big Joey less than thrilled with my matchmaking efforts. I gulped in some breaths to clear my brain and get my blood pressure below raving lunatic. “How long will it take Mamma and KiKi to get out?”
“A few hours with the right attorney. Go home. Run your shop. You can ride shotgun or in the trunk. Your mother’s done me a couple of favors over the years, and I’m doing likewise getting you out of the way.”
Boone took the driver’s side, and I stayed put. He’d toss me in the trunk in a heartbeat. The Chevy circled Franklin Square, named after favorite son Ben, and headed across West Congress. It would be a great day to be cruising in a convertible if my world wasn’t crumbling down around my ears. “Can we at least stop at the Cakery Bakery?”
“You had a chicken leg. Quit whining.”
“Okay, since you’re such a smartass and know about Mamma and my chicken leg and Big Joey, maybe you know who knocked off Seymour. In case you didn’t get the memo, things are looking particularly bad for Mamma, and best I can figure, it’s someone who didn’t like Seymour and is using Mamma as a patsy or someone out to get even with Mamma.”
We stopped for a light, a campaign poster of Gloria Summerside adorned with mustache and devil horns staring back at me, activating little gray cells in my brain. “Or maybe . . .”
“Forget
or maybe
, Blondie. Nothing good comes from you and maybe.”
“Or maybe someone who doesn’t want Seymour
or
Mamma elected. It’s just two weeks till the election. There’s got to be a connection between the campaign and Seymour’s death. Why not just off the jackass any old time.”
I felt instantly better with an actual alternative suspect in my sites. “Archie Lee! He’s the third candidate. Mamma and Scumbucket are out of the picture, and Archie Lee wins the election. Bingo! Perfect fit.”
“Scumbucket?”
“If the shoe fits . . .”
Boone pulled up in front of Cherry House, put the car in neutral, and turned my way. “Archie Lee was put on the ballot one fine Saint Patrick’s Day by a city full of inebriated individuals as a tribute to their favorite bar and bartender. At the time it seemed like a good idea.”
“You were in on it?”
“Green beer makes people do strange things. Seymour’s death doesn’t have to be connected to the election. Might be a murder of convenience with Gloria showing up mad as a hornet. Seymour bites the dust, and the police have their suspect. All very neat and no one poking around because the killer is obvious.”
“Or maybe Archie Lee likes the limelight that goes beyond serving drinks at the Cemetery and has his eye on being alderman. Kill two birds with one honey bourbon bottle, and he’s sitting on city council.”
Boone did the dismissive-shrug thing. “I’ll look into it.”
“No you won’t; I know you.
I’ll
look into it.”
“You start poking around and everyone will clam up.”
“I’ll be discreet.
“Getting run into a swamp, dragged into an alley, trapped under a bookshelf, and strangled by a pissed-off boat captain doesn’t happen to people who are discreet. You don’t have a discreet bone in your body. Staying off your mother’s case is the best way to help her.”
A growl crawled up my throat. “This is the woman who changed my diapers, kissed my boo-boos, and didn’t say I told you so when I caught Hollis doing the Hokey Pokey with Cupcake. If it were your mother, would you do nothing?”
Boone’s face went instantly blank, not one readable flinch or blink. During my divorce, while sitting in Boone’s cherrypaneled office grinding my teeth and visualizing his head on a silver platter, I learned a few things about the guy. He was hardworking, arrogant, conceited, a pain in the butt, and liked a little coffee with his cream and sugar. I knew Boone the lawyer and considered Big Joey and Pillsbury his siblings of the hood. I knew zip about Boone in the early years, how he wound up a lawyer, but somewhere I hit a nerve.
He didn’t look like he wanted to chat about it at the moment. I got out of the car and parked my hands on my hips. “We have different ways of doing things is all.”
“I have connections; you rattle everyone’s cage till something escapes and has you for dinner. Stay away from the courthouse.” Boone put the car in gear and motored down Gwinnett.
I trudged up the sidewalk, got the daily cash from the safe that was actually a rocky road ice cream container in the freezer. I let BW out to irrigate the front yard then sat down on the top step of the porch . . . alone. Usually Auntie KiKi was with me along with coffee or a martini or two or three as we dished the dirt on Savannah society or lately tried to figure out the latest murder. Right now I had no KiKi or martini or suspect . . . except for Archie Lee.
The Cemetery was a watering hole for locals with the best boiled peanuts on the planet. Using Old Bay spice was the secret that wasn’t really much of a secret, but Archie Lee had fine-tuned the technique. The bar was across from Colonial Park Cemetery, a convenient location if things got out of hand and ended badly, and two doors up from Urgent Care if things just got marginally out of hand. Having a face-to-face with Archie Lee about motives and murder may not be a prudent idea on my part, but I’d never been a slave to prudence, and Archie Lee was the only lead I had at the moment.
That gave me a plan, something to work on, something to cling to in finding the killer. The day would improve, I convinced myself as I flipped the Closed sign in the bay window to Open. Least that’s what I thought till I spied Marigold Haber in full election regalia of vest, pin, and straw hat strutting her way up my sidewalk, huge cardboard box in hand.
“I do declare what a morning this has been.” Marigold plopped the box on the green checkout door and swiped a stray curl off her forehead. “Gloria’s arrested and the owner of the HotDoggery just evicted us. Do you believe such a thing! Said he’s not having a murderer for a tenant, that it’ll give the place a bad name.”
Marigold held out her hands in total disbelief. “They sold processed meat, for crying out loud, with enough added nitrates to kill a small army. Now that’s a bad name if you ask me. I was beside myself with worry not knowing what to do or where to go with your mamma’s campaign headquarters, and then it came to me clear as a bell.”
Marigold gazed around my shop, a euphoric grin tripping across her face. “You have a parlor and a kitchen that’s empty as a schoolhouse in summer since you sold off all your furniture to pay your bills on this place, such as it is.”
Gee, thanks. “I have kids clothes in the parlor now.”
“Why this here hall is plenty big enough to accommodate those little bitty things, and there’s nothing around but used clothes anyway, so it’s not like we’re upsetting anything important. We’ll be setting up shop and working from here. We can store the banners and placards in the kitchen.”
Marigold grabbed my shoulders, her eyes moist. “You’re such a good daughter, Reagan. Your mamma will be mighty proud of you helping out like this in her time of great need.” She kissed my cheek. “Mighty proud indeed.”
Jiminy Christmas, Marigold was playing the proud parent card. She’d just insulted my business and me and my house, but any child south of the Ohio River will do whatever it takes to make Mamma and Daddy proud.
Mighty proud indeed
are the magic words that get kids to play football instead of chess, attend church on Sunday mornings even if they sleep through the sermon, take dance lessons instead of skateboarding, and apply to the University of Georgia instead of Stanford. I was toast, and Marigold knew it.
“We’ll all have such a fine time together in this old place, don’t you agree?” Marigold beamed, a twinkle in her eye. “Keep up each other’s spirits till the real killer is behind bars where he or she belongs. I already called the phone people, and they should be here any minute now to run more phone and fax lines for us to get things going.”
Marigold poked her head out the front door, stuck her thumb and finger in her mouth, and let go with a piercing un-belle-like whistle. Three cars screeched to the curb.
“Now that I think about it,” Marigold said to me, “getting evicted is a blessing in disguise. We won’t have to pay rent and rely on donations that are sure to dry up with all this bad publicity circulating like it is.” She raised her right hand, looking a bit like Paula Deen and the Statue of Liability all rolled into one. “We’re not giving up, no siree Bob. Onward and upward in the election polls.”
Marigold headed for the parlor located off the dining room followed by a string of chatty women trooping in the front door lugging more boxes, chairs, laptops, and a cappuccino/espresso/latte machine.
“This way, ladies, follow me,” Marigold called over her shoulder as a U-Haul truck parked in KiKi’s driveway. Since KiKi hadn’t mentioned anything about moving and Savannah burglars had more smarts than to fleece a place in broad daylight, this was more campaign stuff headed my way.
“Oh and, honey,” Lolly Ledbetter said as she passed me, adding a schoolteacher finger wag for emphasis, “you might want to take care of those dark roots you got going on. Not attractive at all for the candidate’s daughter.”
“And for heaven’s sake,” Dottie chimed in, “stand up straight.” Dottie went to high school with Mamma and used to be Miss Six o’clock News on WSAV. She knew all about standing straight. “The press and TV reporters come calling around, and you don’t need to be slouching around like an addle-minded teenager.”
My left eye started to twitch as I spied Chantilly entering through the kitchen, steps slowing, eyes widening at the continuing chaos. “What’s going on around here?” She dodged two men lugging a table, BW hid under the checkout door, and three customers coming up the walk took one look at the confusion and fled for their lives.
“I got to find Scumbucket’s killer and do it quick,” I said, my voice shaky. I grabbed Chantilly’s hand and dragged her over to the parlor doorway, the volunteers fixing up, setting up, and plugging in. “They got kicked out of Mamma’s campaign headquarters over on Broughton. This is me having a roomful of mothers.”
“Mothers like in PB and J sandwiches with the little crusts cut off?”
“Like mind your manners, no kissing on the front porch, what time did you get in last night, and don’t trust bad boys.” I felt my eyes start to cross. “I can’t take it. We need to go to the Cemetery tonight and see Archie Lee. I’m hoping he’s the killer; he’s got the most to gain with two opponents out of the way.”
“And you intend to tell him that to his face?”
“I was thinking of wording it a little better.”
“How do you get into these messes?” Chantilly asked. Then we both made the sign of the cross.
• • •
AT THREE O’CLOCK THE PEARL-GIRLS ALONG WITH
some of the good-old-boys were in full campaign mode; the Prissy Fox not so much. Ringing phones, cranking fax machines and printers did not add to the ambiance of a shopping experience and were killing dead what was gearing up to be my best month so far for Prissy Fox sales. But an even worse problem was that there was no sign of Mamma or KiKi. Boone said it would take a few hours to get bail arranged, but five was more than a few. Five was many . . . too many. I was done with being cautious and standing around doing nothing. I didn’t care what Boone said; I was headed straight for a full-blown panic attack and the police station to get my family out of jail if I had to rent a backhoe and level the place to do it.
Grabbing Old Yeller I made for the door as the Beemer squealed into KiKi’s drive. She jumped out, grinned, held up to-go cups with Jen’s and Friends stenciled in blue on the sides, then cha-chaed her way across the grass/weed patch separating our properties.