Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) (5 page)
Read Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) Online
Authors: Duffy Brown
I threw my arms around her. “What happened? What took so long? Are you and Mamma all right?”
KiKi sipped from her cup and handed me the other one. “I got us strawberry martinis to celebrate my new do.” She did a little twirl. “What do you think? I’m plum gorgeous, don’t you agree?”
I plopped down on the top step of the porch. “You stopped off to get your hair done?”
KiKi parked next to me. “Didn’t have to. Mercedes did it right there in the slammer. Your mamma looks terrific. Got rid of that old bob thing she had going on. We hung around for a while so Mercedes could show us how to do the curling part. She’s coming over tomorrow to put in highlights. I’m going to teach her the rumba.”
I took a sip of martini, little gray brain cells starting to function. “Waitaminute. You stayed in jail on purpose because you wanted to? What happened to shivs and dope and being somebody’s bitch before noon?” I took a big gulp of martini. “Where the heck’s Mamma?”
“Oh, honey, even Martha Stewart taught knitting while incarcerated. Must be a new trend these days. Mercedes took a liking to us right off, and we passed the time away. Your mamma’s back at her house safe and sound without a reporter in sight thanks to Betty Lou Harris and her marital difficulties. Seems she found her Dwain with two prostitutes over there at the Weston, and she went and shot his do-da clean off. I’m here to tell you that a dismembered private part trumps fingerprints on a liquor bottle any day of the week. Sorry I missed all that hoopla, had to be some sight. Heard tell Jerry Springer is headed this way. He’s gearing up to do a show about using it and losing it.”
KiKi finished her martini, eyes not focusing as she sucked two strawberries right off the toothpick and nodded at the open door. “So what’s going on around here?”
“Business sucks. Mamma’s campaign headquarters moved into the Prissy Fox, and I’ve been told to stand up straight and put on lipstick like I’m an addle-minded teenager. I should have gone to jail with you.”
KiKi gave me a kiss on the forehead. “Come up with any ideas on who polished off Scumbucket?”
I did the clueless hunch and KiKi tsked. “Poppycock. You’re lying like a rug. I can tell a mile away. You should be ashamed of yourself, fibbing to your dear auntie that way after she just got out of jail.”
She snatched my martini right out of my hand. “But I got to lay low tonight anyway, so don’t go snooping around on your own. Putter’s coming home, and it’s going to take all my womanly wiles to explain away me being in jail. Thought I’d go with ‘I was just there waiting for Gloria to get sprung.’”
“And leave out that you were in the pokey with her while waiting? I suppose that’s not exactly a lie.”
“The way I see it, this falls under the category of selective absentmindedness. Anyone in AARP has the right. I do believe it says so right there on the bottom of the card.” KiKi winked, gulped down the rest of my martini, followed by an appreciative burp, then sashayed her way across the yard to Rose Gate.
Lolly Ledbetter came out the front door, the guys and gals of Campaigns-R-Us in tow. They gave a little wave as they left, and Lolly said, “We’re meeting up at your mamma’s tonight to talk damage control. She’s calling a press conference first thing tomorrow morning before Seymour’s funeral to say her being at the police station was a misunderstanding.”
“Think they’ll buy it?”
“Not for a minute, and that’s what they’ll write, but we’re not giving up. All of us will be back here tomorrow except me. It’s my day to run the trolley.”
Lolly sat down beside me and heaved a weary sigh. “This isn’t the way it was supposed to be, you know. Nowadays, Cazy takes Monday, Wednesdays, Fridays, and I do Lolly’s Trolley the rest of the time. Used to be the trolley was just a hobby of mine for when the kids went off to college, and I liked sharing the wonders of our fair city with visiting folks. Since Cazy lost his job at the savings and loan the trolley’s turned out to be our bread and butter.”
Lolly took my hand and grabbed tight, a steely glint in her eyes. “I’m sorry your mamma got nailed for whacking Seymour, but no one deserves being whacked and buried more than that man. He was evil clear through to the bone. Amen, hallelujah, and good riddance, I say.”
Lolly headed for her car, and BW gave the yard a good sniffing in search of squirrels, rabbits, or chipmunks daring to invade his space. Boone said Scumbucket had enemies. I never considered the fact that Lolly was one of those enemies and working on Mamma’s campaign to make sure Scumbucket didn’t get elected as alderman.
I went back inside to finally enjoy a moment of peace and quiet till I heard the printer grinding away in the parlor and found Marigold Haber sitting alone at one of the long tables stuffing envelopes. “You should be the one running for office considering all the hours you put in on this campaign,” I said to her.
“Oh, Lordy, no. Put a microphone in front of me, and I sound like a cracked record. Besides, Butler’s a dinner-on-the-table-at-five and did-you-pick-up-my-blue-suit-at-the-cleaners kind of husband.”
“Honey, it’s after five.”
“Imagine that.” Marigold forced a tight smile, but her eyes looked more sad than happy. “Where does the time go?” Seemed like she meant that for more than just today. She turned off the printer and snagged a handful of flyers and her black purse that was showing a bit of wear.
“I’m off to see your mamma,” she said. “We’re going to win this here election if it’s the last thing I do. Gloria deserves it, she’s worked hard all her life, and I’m going to make it happen for both our sakes. See you tomorrow, honey, and pick out something a little more fashionable than shoes held together with glue. You can see it oozing right out the side.”
Business picked up a bit without the hubbub of the campaign buzzing in the background. As I scurried around taking in clothes to consign and ringing up sales, I thought about the good old days that were less than twenty-four hours ago. Life turned on a dime . . . or a honey bourbon bottle.
At eight sharp two honks at the curb heralded Chantilly’s arrival, and I hurried out to the Jeep idling under the streetlight. “Great outfit,” I said as I climbed in, eyeing Chantilly’s green skirt, short boots, and tan suede jacket. “Win the lottery?”
The Jeep turned for Abercorn, night settling in over the city and tucking it in for the night. “It’s part of last year’s splurge when I was gainfully employed with UPS. I so need a job. I go on interviews, and employers take one look at me and say, ‘Hey, you’re that girl.’ Being tied to Simon’s murder isn’t helping my chances one little bit.”
Riding a horse naked on YouTube didn’t enhance Chantilly’s resume much either, but she felt bad enough at the moment without me throwing that in the mix.
“I told Pillsbury you and I were headed for the Cemetery,” Chantilly added. “Said he’d stop on by, doesn’t want anyone infringing on his territory. That means me. Isn’t that the sweetest thing you ever heard? And another big reason I need a job. I need rent. Moving back in with my parents is out of the question. If ex-cop daddy gets wind of Pillsbury and me together, that there conflict with the Yankees a while back will look like a tiny skirmish in comparison.”
“Your daddy thinks you sit home knitting?”
“Told him I was dating an accountant and that part happens to be the God’s honest truth. Pillsbury’s a full-fledged certified public accountant for Pete’s sake. What more could Daddy ask for, right?”
“That Pillsbury’s
public
wasn’t the Seventeenth Street gang? But then I married Hollis the horse’s patoot when everyone told me not to, so I’m not one to be giving advice or throwing stones.”
Chantilly found a parking spot, and we hoofed it the few blocks to the bar. The Cemetery was old as dirt. Many moons ago Sherman’s soldiers downed a few pints at the place, and more than one wound up poisoned, buried in the basement, and left wandering the halls of this fine establishment to this day . . . or so we haunted Savannah tour guides liked to elaborate. The present day Cemetery was known for beer cocktails such as Black and Tans. Translation: pale ale, Guinness, with a taste like burnt tar with a dash of roadkill.
The place was long and narrow; wood bar lining one side; mismatched tables; ESPN on the tube; neon signs for Miller, Samuel Adams, Heineken, and the like dotting the wall; peanut shells on the floor. It was always in various stages of busy and tonight even more so because right above the old mahogany mirrored bar was a big red, white, and blue sign proclaiming “Archie Lee . . . wins!”
“What do you think about that?” I asked Chantilly, both of us staring at the proclamation.
“In hopes of a nice, peaceful night how about we go with this here sign being the power of positive thinking, and confidence is a virtue?”
“What about overconfidence? Sounds suspicious if you ask me. A little too overly positive considering Mamma hasn’t been found guilty. I wonder what Archie Lee has to say for himself?”
Chantilly headed for the bar. “Sweet mother in heaven, it’s gonna be one of those nights, I can tell.”
C
HANTILLY
and I commandeered two stools at the end of the bar and ordered Miller Lights. “This seat taken?” Pillsbury sallied up to Chantilly, draping his piggy bank–tattooed arm around her, followed by a kiss on the cheek. He and I exchanged pleasantries, but the lovebirds were soon lost in their own little world, leaving me to come up with a tactful way to accuse Archie Lee of knocking off Scumbucket and framing Mamma. Archie Lee had the looks and temperament of Danny DeVito, making him one popular barkeep . . . usually. Heard tell the flipside was Archie Lee provoked.
“So,” I said over the din as Archie Lee refilled my bowl of boiled peanuts. “The election’s looking pretty good for you with Seymour and Summerside out of the way.”
“Need another beer?”
“How do you like campaigning?”
A barmaid called out an order, and Archie pulled the spigot on two beers, foam running over the top and dripping down the side.
“We don’t serve champagne here. We’re a beer and whiskey joint,” Archie yelled back to me and handed off the mugs to the waitress as another patron elbowed in with an order for three Black and Blues, another one of those burnt tar drinks.
Okay, this was going nowhere. The place was crowded, Archie Lee was busy as a one-armed paperhanger in a windstorm, and I needed someone who liked to chat. I tossed a few bills on the bar, dumped the nuts in a basket on the nearest table, and went in search of a boiled-peanut refill along with information. A hallway with chipped green paint and century-old dinged chair rail led out the back, and I followed it, taking a detour toward some racket and a small kitchen area.
“What are you doing back here?” a guy with Popeye muscles and Dr. Phil hair asked. Using a canoe paddle, he stirred a huge pot boiling over an old black stove propped up on one side by a two-by-four chunk of wood.
Being all Little Miss Dazed and Confused, I held up my empty basket. “Looking for a peanut refill. They’re kind of busy out front, thought I’d try back here. Well, my goodness gracious, is this how you make them?”
“They don’t make themselves, sweetheart. You got to leave. This is no place to be.”
“Everyone thinks you all make the best boiled peanuts in Savannah. Hope that doesn’t stop now that Archie Lee might wind up an alderman. You think he’s really serious about taking the job?”
“Looking forward to it as best I can tell. I can handle things around here when he’s off being mister good citizen.” Popeye popped the tops on twelve bottles of Guinness, dumped them into the caldron, then added boxes of Old Bay seasoning. He stirred the brew, yellow flames licking up the sides, spicy steam wafting over the top.
“Why get involved in politics when he has the bar? He’s already got enough work just like this to keep him busy.”
“Got that right.” Popeye added a behemoth bag of green nuts and gave another swirl with the paddle. “Got to cook them for a long time to kill the toxins, and you need a big old stove like this to get things hot enough. Archie Lee’s got this down to a science.”
Popeye glanced at me through the haze, little droplets of sweat collecting on his unibrow. “Why do you care about Archie Lee anyway? You think he’s not smart enough to be with those knuckleheads down at city hall? He didn’t finish high school, but he’s plenty smart enough. He’ll be great in politics; he’s honest and works for the little guy, not like that rich snotty judge or a hotshot builder with all his mountains of money and . . .”
His voice trailed off as a spark of recognition lit his black eyes. “Hey, I know you, you’re that judge’s daughter.” A sinister tone crept into Popeye’s voice. “What are you doing back here? What do you want from me?”
“Nuts.” I made my blue plastic basket do a little dance in the air and added a sugar-sweet smile. The smile never worked with teachers when I forgot to do my homework, but I was hoping for a better outcome now.
“You’re not here for nuts; you’re here for trouble. You’re thinking Archie Lee knocked off Seymour then framed your mamma. Archie Lee said that might happen. He figured that judge and her police friends would try and pin the murder on him. All you rich people stick together and screw us little guys, and you don’t care who gets hurt.”
“You want little guy, I’ll show you little guy.” I slid off my shoe and held it up. “Are you wearing stuff held together with super glue? You call that rich? I’m not rich, and my mamma is not snooty.”
Popeye stepped around the two-by-four holding up the stove and pointed his paddle to the door. “Get out while the getting’s good.” He backed me toward the hall, me hopping in that direction on one shoed foot. “Archie Lee and I are brothers, and don’t you forget it. Mind your own beeswax if you know what’s good for you and your mamma.”
I stopped and stood my ground. “No one threatens my mamma.”
“And who’s going to stop me? The scrawny likes of you?” Least he said I was scrawny.
“Hey,” came Archie Lee’s voice echoing down the hall. “What’s going on back here?”
“We got ourselves a pest problem,” Popeye said over his shoulder, giving me the chance to dart for the door, yank it open, and hobble out onto a rickety loading dock in the alley. Safe at last, except that Big Joey was crossing the street twenty feet away. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the Big Joey/Earlene situation. Heck, I had just escaped the Archie Lee/Popeye situation.
Hopping again, I ducked behind the Dumpster till something with beady black eyes, twitching whiskers, and a long skinny tail scurried across my one and only foot on the ground. I slapped my hand over my mouth and tried not to scream. I really did try, but the scream jumped out anyway, and I leaped from behind the Dumpster. Big Joey looked up, frowned, and headed my way. This was all Chantilly’s fault, I realized. She said it was going to be one of those nights. She’d jinxed it.
A lonely bulb lighting the back alley silhouetted Big Joey, proving beyond all doubt how he got the
big
attached to his name. Not that I was actually afraid of the guy, but I hated being on his bad side, and the Earlene state of affairs put me there big-time. On more than one occasion he had saved my butt; my reciprocity consisted mostly of comic relief and getting in the way.
“I’m sorry,” I said at the same time Big Joey blurted, “Apologies, babe.” We stared at each other for a beat, both of us confused.
“Why are you apologizing?” I said. “I’m the one who dropped Earlene on your doorstep.”
Big Joey nodded toward the back entrance of the bar. “Hanging with Earlene presently. No bird but true and tight, and that counts.” Meaning Earlene wasn’t a hot young chickie, but she was someone you could count on and she was nice. My bilingual skills were improving.
“How Mamma make out?” Big Joey asked. “My inside man buzzed to a new area. Not cool.”
“You didn’t arrange for Mercedes?”
“The ride?”
“The woman. She looked out for Mamma and my auntie KiKi, and I thought you got her there somehow.”
A flicker of recognition sparked Big Joey’s eyes, a slow smile on his lips. “
That
Mercedes.”
“Meaning . . . ?”
“It’s all good.” He eyed the shoe and basket, the grin expanding. “Troubles?”
“A little misunderstanding.”
“Keep it real, babe. Gotta bounce.” Big Joey took the backdoor into the bar, and I slid on my shoe and hung the basket from the doorknob. I headed for Mamma’s house. The campaign meeting had to be over by now, and I needed to check that she was okay with my own two eyes. Besides, I was dying to see her new do.
A stiff breeze off the ocean made me button my denim jacket and turn up my collar. Thank the Lord Savannah never got beyond jacket cold. Snow was an occasional fluke, and icy conditions were found only in sweet tea and drinks on the veranda.
I cut across Oglethorpe Square catching a glimpse of the Owens-Thomas House and wondering if Miss Margaret strolled the gardens tonight. She died back in ’51 of course, but that didn’t mean she didn’t take a stroll now and then. This was Savannah after all.
I turned onto York as Walker Boone ambled down Mamma’s front sidewalk and got into the Chevy. Okay, what was with Mamma and Boone? There was a connection, but what and why? I did my stop-the-bus routine of standing in the street, waving, and looking ridiculous. Considering the night I’d had so far, the ridiculous part fit right in. Boone hit the brakes, and I took the passenger side.
“You and Archie Lee have a nice visit?” he asked.
“Don’t know if I’d jump right to nice. You do realize he has a victory banner right there in his bar? He knows liquor, and his brother knows about toxins from plants. Sounds like a murder suspect to me, and the Cemetery is sure in a party mood. I think he did it; he knocked off Scumbucket and framed Mamma.”
“You really think Archie Lee would advertise winning if he killed off the competition?”
“It’s genius. He looks innocent and simply the beneficiary of an unfortunate . . . or fortunate, depending on your point of view . . . occurrence that just happened to fall his way. He’s just one lucky guy, real lucky. I wonder where Mr. Lucky was when Seymour got knocked off.”
“You going to ask him?”
“Is there some reason you’re at Mamma’s?”
Boone pulled the convertible to the curb. “There’s a new sheriff in town, and it’s going to muddy the waters. They’re bringing in a detective from Atlanta. Ross is second fiddle on this case. You’re mother’s well liked by the police here, and this new guy is to make sure there’re no cover-ups. It’s good in that when Gloria’s found innocent, the prosecuting attorney can’t cry foul play, because there’s an outside source.”
“Putting a judge away could be a feather in Atlanta boy’s cap. Did you ever consider that?”
“He’ll be fair.”
I made a strangling sound of disbelief.
“Keep in mind he won’t think twice about throwing your meddling butt behind bars for obstruction of justice.”
I got out of the car. “And what if Atlanta boy catches you snooping around?”
Boone gave me a fat-chance eye roll and motored off. The porch light was still on at Mamma’s, meaning she hadn’t gone to bed. I gave a little knock and went inside. Mamma met me in the front hall. Her hair was flipped out instead of tucked under, her bangs swept to the side and tucked behind her ear. I touched a strand. “You look mighty fetching, Judge Summerside.”
Mamma smiled, then sobered. “What in all that’s holy happened to you? You’re all dirty. What have you been up to? More alleys?”
“It’s all Chantilly’s fault. Do you know this detective from Atlanta?”
“Bet you didn’t have dinner.” Mamma led the way to the kitchen, updated last year with marble counters and white cabinets. “I haven’t met the detective, but I’m sure he’ll be fair.”
“That’s what Boone said.” I sat at the old yellow pine table where Mamma and I had shared meals since I was two and that had thankfully escaped the upgrade.
Mamma smiled. “You got to trust the system, honey.”
Mamma was all serene and peaceful as she took ham and roast beef from the fridge like when I was in grade school bellyaching about math class. She pulled out a loaf of sourdough bread and the mayo. “You really do mean it, don’t you? About trusting the system.”
“What kind of judge would I be if I didn’t?” She added lettuce and cheese, and sat the sandwich in front of me, a blue linen napkin beside it. Sometimes you can go home again . . . at least for a little bit.
“How did you know I was hungry?” I got up and washed my hands at the sink, and Mamma nodded at the pile of campaign posters.
“I have spies. Your refrigerator’s empty, and your dog eats better than you do.”
“Who do you think killed Seymour?” I asked, and reclaimed my seat. I snatched the sandwich and chowed down.
“Hard to say.”
“Who’s your attorney?” I mumbled around a mouthful of sublime comfort food, thankful for a break in the action. I plucked up a slice of Swiss that had escaped and plopped it into my mouth. How could something with holes taste so good?
Mamma rewrapped the cold cuts and cheese, and cleaned up crumbs that weren’t there. “I’m working on that one.”
“Any front runners?”
“I’ll get somebody good. This could be dangerous. Seymour was a dangerous guy. I don’t want to involve just anyone in my problems.” Mamma folded then refolded the kitchen towel twice, and I put down my sandwich—so much for peace and calm. I wasn’t the only one with idiosyncrasies that gave me away. With Mamma it was making busy work when she didn’t want to give straight answers. The time she donated my favorite jeans to the Goodwill by mistake she arranged all the pens in the house by size and color.