Savannah Breeze (4 page)

It started so
innocently, with those keys. My hair was still wet from the shower by the time Reddy got back to my place. The cuffs of his pants were soaked, as were his formerly immaculate white tennis shoes.

“Done,” he said lightly, handing over a cashier's check for the entire $43,000 purchase price of the Lincoln, plus a set of keys I didn't recognize.

“How?”

He waved off my questions. “Those are the keys to your grandfather's Buick Electra. And listen. It's probably best if you don't go back to Mitchell Motors any time soon. Tyler Mitchell is not your biggest fan.”

“But—”

He put his forefinger across my lips. “No big deal. Oh yeah,” he added casually. “I stopped by the carriage house and shut off the water at the street.”

“Thank God,” I said. “I called the plumber, but he wasn't going to be able to get over there until tomorrow at the earliest.”

“It's all fixed,” Reddy repeated. “I took a shop vac over and siphoned off most of the water, and opened a window to air the place out. But the hardwood floors are ruined. And you're going to need paint and wallpaper in all those flooded-out downstairs rooms. That place was a pigsty,” he said, making a face. “How'd you hook up with her in the first place?”

Now I was the one making the face. “She's the niece of an old school friend. I made an exception to my ‘no-students' rule for her, and that's the thanks I get.”

“Don't you check your tenants' references before you rent to them?” Reddy asked.

“No.” I sighed. “I guess I'm not that organized. Usually, I just find tenants through word of mouth, the Savannah way. I've been lucky up to now. Never been burned before.”

“But you make your tenants give you a deposit of first and last month's rent—right?”

“No,” I said meekly. “I've always been a trusting soul. Dumb, huh?”

He shrugged. “Not the best property-management policy I've ever heard of.”

“I know. I just stay so busy with the restaurant, and the rentals take up so much of my time and energy. I've thought seriously about turning them over to an agency, but I've never quite gotten around to it.”

“How many units do you have?” Reddy asked.

“Besides West Gordon, there's the town house on East Liberty—which has three units, counting a studio over the garage; the little house on President—that's two units; and then the house on Gwinnett, in the Victorian district, that's just one unit, but it's empty right now.”

“How come?” he asked, sipping his wine.

“I've got electrical problems,” I said. “The last tenant in there was a self-styled electrician. He decided to rewire the kitchen and damn near burned the place down.”

“How long has it been empty?”

“Since November,” I admitted. “I'm terrible at this, aren't I?”

He kissed me. “Not terrible. Just over-committed. Where shall we go for dinner?”

I glanced at my watch and shook my head. “I can't. I've got to take some groceries over to Granddaddy's and fix him supper.”

“Afterward?” Reddy asked. “It's early yet, and I had a late lunch.”

“Afraid not,” I said reluctantly. “I'm going to sleep over there tonight, at the very least, to make sure he takes his medicine and goes to bed. With Grandmama in the hospital, he hasn't been taking care of himself. He stays up all night tracking storms and eating Kit Kat bars.”

“I thought you had family here in town,” Reddy said, sounding exasperated.

“I do. Three of my brothers live right here in Savannah. Another lives in Hilton Head, one's in Atlanta, and the other's in Jacksonville.”

“So? Can't one of them step up to the plate?”

“They could, but they're probably not going to,” I said. “Arch, at least, helps out sometimes. But Bert has four kids, a wife who's manic-depressive, and he travels all the time.”

“Brother number three?”

“Carlton. Don't remind me. He thinks of himself as an only child.”

“Which leaves BeBe,” he observed.

“I don't mind,” I said, and I thought I meant it. “I'm the only one who's single. I don't have kids, and just between us, I've always been Granddaddy's favorite. And the boys know it too.”

“Still, it's a lot of responsibility, and you're already running full tilt with the restaurant and the rentals and your own life.”

“What life?” I asked gloomily. “I work. I eat. I sleep. And sometimes,” I said, giving him a wicked grin, “I play.”

“That's what we have to make more time for,” Reddy said. “The play part.”

“You'll get no argument from me there,” I said. “I know I'm doing a lousy job of juggling everything, but I just don't know how else to keep all my bases covered.”

“I do,” he said.

“Yeah?”

We were standing by my front door, and I was wrapping my scarf around my neck because I could hear the wind whipping around outside. So much for spring.

“Let me help out,” Reddy said. “At least with some of the business stuff. I'm pretty damned good at it, you know.”

“I couldn't,” I said quickly. “You don't have any idea how much is involved. And I wouldn't begin to know how to explain everything to you. My files are in a mess, and I won't know how much time I'll be spending at my grandparents' until I talk to the doctors.”

I kissed him warmly. “You really and truly are an angel to suggest it. But I couldn't take advantage of you like that. I really couldn't.”

He kissed me back. “Take advantage of me, please.”

The phone rang then. “Hold that thought,” I told him, and I dashed for the kitchen.

“Miss Loudermilk? This is Robert Walker. Dr. Walker. I'm your grandmother's internist. I understand you were trying to reach me?”

“Yes,” I said eagerly. “I saw my grandmother in the infirmary at Magnolia Manor today, and I was shocked by her condition. She's lost so much weight, and the nurses say she sleeps most of the time.”

“Well, she was in a good bit of pain from the urinary-tract infection, so we've been giving her something for that, and to help her sleep.”

“I counted seven different kinds of pills she's taking,” I said. “All that medicine can't be a good thing.”

“Seven?” he said, his voice sharp. “I've got her on Flagyl and Cipro, for the bladder infection, Vicodin for the pain, and Ambien to sleep. That's only four. Plus, of course, we're treating her now for a kidney infection.”

“Kidney infection?” I yelped. “Since when? Nobody said anything about a kidney infection to me when I was over there today.”

“I stopped by to see her on rounds at four, and didn't like the look of her blood levels,” Dr. Walker said. “So we got her started on something for that right away.”

“God,” I groaned. “But there were two other medicine bottles at the apartment. My grandfather said she's also been taking Lasix and Digoxin, and Atavan.”

“Oh?” he said.

“You didn't know?” Could things have gotten any worse? I glanced up at the kitchen ceiling, wondering when it would fall in on me.

We hung up, and I went back to the front door, where Reddy was patiently waiting for me.

“Sorry,” I said. It seemed as though I'd been saying that all day. And it had really been a very sorry day. “I had to take that call. It was Grandmama's doctor. Now she's got something else wrong with her. He says there's something going on with her kidneys.”

“Anything I can do?” Reddy asked. “I told you before, I'm good at a lot of different things. Except hospitals and sick people. That I'm not too good at.”

“Nothing,” I said. But then I remembered.

“Wait. There is something.” I rummaged around in the big copper dish I keep on the table in the foyer. It was where I kept all the keys to the rentals, plus the extra keys to my own town house.

“I want to be at the hospital in the morning, to talk to the doctor, but in the meantime, the insurance adjuster is supposed to meet me over at West Gordon at ten. And the bug guy is supposed to be here at noon to spray. I've got silverfish. I hate to ask, but you've been so sweet to offer. Would you?”

He held out his hand, and I gave him the keys. “This one with the red tag is for here, and the green one is for West Gordon. Tell Jerry, the bug guy, to be sure and spray the attic this time.”

Reddy nodded. “I'm on it. See you tomorrow?”

“I hope so,” I said. “Things can't get any worse between now and then, can they?”

“Grandmama?”
I'd been sitting at my grandmother's bedside for more than two hours. She hadn't stirred in all that time, except for the intermittent buzz of snoring. And the doctor still hadn't shown.

Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of my voice. She squeezed my hand.

“How are you feeling? Any better?”

She grimaced. “Tubes. I hate all these tubes.” Her voice was weak, barely audible, but if she was complaining, she was definitely feeling better.

“I know,” I said. “You've had a bad time of it this week.”

She struggled to sit upright. “Where's Spencer?”

“He's at home, still sleeping,” I said. “He had a late night. Flash floods in northern California, mud slides, and a tropical disturbance in the Azores.”

“Old fool,” she muttered. “What day is it?”

“It's Tuesday.”

My grandmother shrugged but said nothing.

There was a short knock on the door. Dr. Walker, a big, white-haired bear of a man, strode over and took Grandmama's hand in his, giving me a polite nod.

“Mrs. Loudermilk?” he said, softly. “I hear you had a bad night last night?”

“So-so,” Grandmama said meekly. “Some problems breathing.”

“We're going to move you over to Memorial Hospital, to do some
more tests on you. There's an ambulance waiting right downstairs. Would that be all right?”

“More tests?” she said, her voice suddenly sharper. “And how much is all that gonna cost?”

Dr. Walker grinned. “I don't want you to have a heart attack on me.”

“It's all right,” I assured her, standing at the side of her bed. “You've got good insurance. You can afford all the tests they want to run.”

I glanced down at my watch. It was after eleven. I'd already fielded several phone calls from the restaurant, and I still had to figure out how to replace the two employees I'd fired over the weekend.

“She'll be fine,” Dr. Walker said quickly. “I'll meet her over there in an hour. I've called ahead and let them know which tests I want run. You won't really be able to see her until she's back from X-ray anyway, and that'll be around four.”

“You're sure?” I asked. “I can shuffle my schedule if I need to.”

“Positive,” he said.

“Go on about your business,” Grandmama said imperiously. “And don't tell Spencer about all these tests. You know how he gets himself all worked up over nothing.”

“I'll bring him when I come this afternoon,” I promised. “You sure you don't need me to help you move?”

She waved me away. “Go.”

It was closer to five by the time I left the restaurant, went back to Magnolia Manor to pick up my grandfather, and then over to Memorial Hospital.

Granddaddy paused outside the door to her room. His face was pale. “She's bad, isn't she?” For the first time, he looked really scared.

“Not that bad,” I said. “They're just being cautious. Just in case. You'll see. She's going to be fine. Just make sure you tell her I'm feeding you good, so she doesn't give me fits about not taking care of you.”

I waited outside in the hallway to give them some privacy. After fifteen minutes, I went inside. Grandmama had a clear plastic mask over her face, with a hose hooked up to a humming machine. Granddaddy was sitting on a chair beside her hospital bed, holding his wife's hand in his, staring raptly up at the television, watching what looked like a thirty-year-old rerun of
Hollywood Squares.

He looked up when I came in, and pointed at the television. “They got the Game Show Channel. Paul Lynde! We don't get that at our place.”

Grandmama pushed her mask aside. “I told this old fool to cut it off. I'm not paying for deluxe cable. They probably charge you double in a place like this.” She would have said more too, but her tirade was interrupted by a fit of coughing.

A nurse came in then, looked at one of the monitors at her bedside, and shooed us back out into the hallway.

My cell phone rang, and I walked rapidly to the visitors' waiting area to take the call.

It was Reddy. “Hey, BeBe,” he said. “How's it going at your end?”

I sighed. “Not so good. They've moved my grandmother over to Memorial Hospital, and they're running a bunch of tests. I don't really understand any of it.”

“Hang in there,” Reddy said. “Who's her doctor?”

“Robert Walker,” I said.

“I know Robert,” Reddy said. “One of my sisters was in his class at Emory. He's the best.”

“Hope so,” I said fervently. “Did you see the insurance adjuster?”

“It's all taken care of,” Reddy said. “They're cutting you a check for $18,000 today. I called a floor guy I know, and he says he can do the job for a lot less than that. And the bug guy was here. He sprayed the attic, like you asked. I gave him a check, and he said to tell you he'll see you next month.”

“You're the best,” I said, meaning it. “But you didn't need to pay him. He usually just sends a bill.”

“It was a new guy,” Reddy said. “Your regular guy is on vacation or something. Don't worry about it, I took care of it.”

“All right,” I said

At eleven that night, I was finally able to ferry Granddaddy home. We were both exhausted. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was fast asleep.

I got a blanket and pillow of my own, and tried to make myself comfortable on the sofa bed, which felt as if it had been designed specifically as an instrument of torture. I closed my eyes and waited for sleep. Which never came.

What did come was waves of anxiety. My grandmother was ill, her diagnosis uncertain. Granddaddy's snores reverberated off the walls of the small apartment. He'd been worried about Lorena's condition, but on the trip home he'd blithely assured me that the pills she'd been given would make her “right as rain.”

Rain. Once it started, it never seemed to let up.