Demise in Denim (5 page)

“Maybe a little, and it was before I got the note.” I took a step toward him, and he took a step back and ate another cracker. “We can't do this, Reagan,” he said in a ragged voice.

“Oh yes we can,” I said, my voice equally ragged. I felt devil horns sprouting on my head. “It'll be fun. I'm a little rusty, but I'm thinking it's like riding a bike and it'll come back to me really quick and—”

“No hanky-panky.” Boone took another step back.

I stepped toward him. “I'll settle for the hanky.”

“And then you'll get that dopey look on your face worse than ever, and the cops and everyone else will know that we've been together. Listen, someone wants me out of the picture and if they have to go through you to get to me, they'll do it and not think twice. I don't want you involved in this mess; stay out of it. That's why I wrote the note.”

“Hey, you're not the only one with something to lose, you know.”

“Lord save me, it's the furniture speech.”

“I'm a businesswoman with a dog to support.”

“Unless you want to be buried in that furniture, forget about it.”

I parked my hands on my hips. “So why the heck are you here?”

“A friend of a friend saw lights inside and I got the message. I figured someone was up to no good. I should have known it was you causing mayhem. Go home and run your shop and butt out, period, blondie.”

“You know, you say that every time things get a little crazy because you're afraid something will happen to me.”

“Something always does happen to you.”

I pulled the picture from my pocket and held the flashlight to it. “KiKi and I weren't the only ones in here tonight. We were out with BW and we saw the lights too and thought you were being burgled. Then we found this on your desk.” I held up the shoe. “And we found this in your desk.” I pulled out the picture. “We figure a really pissed-off bride left the shoe and the killer planted the picture. I'd say it's another piece of the
let's frame Walker for murder
puzzle.”

Boone stared at the picture for a long moment, not moving, barely breathing. “The happy family,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You know, at this particular time it probably was. Then Conway married for money and your mamma took off and left you with Grandma Hilly.”

“It could be worse,” Boone said, still looking at the picture.

Truth be told, I wasn't sure how it could be much worse, since Boone's Grandma Hilly died when he was around fifteen and he took to living on the streets.

“I could be Tucker, a wealthy boozed-up wart on society's backside,” Boone added, the twinkle back in his eyes. “I'd say the killer's someone who has it in for me and for Conway and wanted to get rid of us both.”

“And the shoe?” I held it up. “Tick anyone off lately?”

“She wanted me to sue her ex-fiancé and I graciously declined.”

“Not graciously enough.”

Boone shoved the picture in his jean pockets. They were baggy, torn denim, life-in-the-projects quality. His black hoodie was ripped and frayed at the neck. “We got to get out of here,” he said. “The cops are going to keep an eye on this place from here on out. There's a loose board in the back fence that the kids use to cut through the alleys. Give it a yank and slide through. Stay off the streets for a few blocks in case the cops are on patrol.”

He opened the fridge and stuffed two apples in his pocket and a half loaf of bread under his sweatshirt along with the jar of peanut butter and the crackers. For sure Boone knew people who would hide him, but he was staying away from friends so they wouldn't get caught up in his ordeal. I couldn't even imagine the hovel he was holed up in. I grabbed all the cash I had from Old Yeller, two tens and a five, and shoved them at Boone. “Take it, it's rent for the car.”

He stuffed the money back in my purse, then opened the freezer and pulled a wad of bills from a mint chocolate chip ice cream container. “A little something I picked up from a friend.” He winked, then headed for the back door, turned, and came back and kissed me hard.

“What about the dopey look?” I gasped, totally surprised I wasn't a puddle on the floor.

“You've got a satin shoe and are wearing a tiara. Some things are worth the gamble.” He fiddled with the tiara, a warm sultry look in his dark eyes.

“It's KiKi's. It's for luck.”

“We definitely need luck.”

Boone kissed me again, this time slow and soft on the forehead. “Watch your back, blondie,” he said, his lips forming the words against my skin. “There's some mean people out there and they're playing for keeps. I don't want you hurt over this.”

“I don't want you hurt either,” I said in a choked voice, barely able to get the words out. He looked at me for moment, his eyes dark and unfathomable. Then he walked out the door. The house was lonely and quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the slow heavy thud of my heart.

I refused to cry. Things would get better, I promised myself. They had to. I'd make sure they did. Boone didn't come all this way from being a half-starved street kid to living in a gorgeous house on Madison Square to wind up in jail for something he didn't do. And besides, BW would never forgive me if I let that happen to his doggie daddy. I waited a few beats, checked the back alley for stray cops, and then darted for the fence.

I cut across Drayton to Pinky Masters, the home of
Tabasco popcorn, hands down the very best late-night snack on the planet. Pinky's was a dive bar with the jukebox presently blaring Beyoncé, the perfect cure for me feeling down in the dumps. The place was frequented by everyone from teachers at SCAD—Savannah College of Art and Design—to local store clerks to the garbage pickup guys who kept Savannah neat and tidy. It was truly Savannah's melting pot, and right there in the back corner was Mercedes. She was eating popcorn, swilling something tall and cool, and intently checking her iPhone messages.

I snaked my way through the standing-room-only crowd to the back table. “More dead people waiting for your expertise?” I said as I sat down.

Mercedes looked up, a grin tripping across her face. “Girl, what are you doing in here?”

“Eating your popcorn.” I dug a handful of spicy yumminess out of the little blue plastic basket on the table. “I didn't take you for a Pinky girl.” I looked at Mercedes's lilac jacket with matching scarf. “I figured you were more of the Old Pink House variety or maybe the Bay Street Blues Club.”

“Those places are right fine for sure, but at the moment I'm hiding out and taking a load off. Fixing up Conway was a lot of work and I'm beat to the bone. Besides, the Pink House doesn't have Tabasco popcorn, now does it?” She leaned across the table. “Any chance you've run into Mr. Boone? I sure hope he's doing okay. I'm truly worried. I sort of got him into this mess.”

“Best I can tell, this all started years ago and you sure aren't to blame.” Using every ounce of self-control I possessed, I kept my face blank. Boone was right about there
being a killer out there, and I didn't want Mercedes in the line of fire if I could help it.

Mercedes's eyes rounded. “Well I do declare, you have seen the man.”

“Okay, this is so not fair. How did you know? I didn't squish up my eyes or wrinkle my nose or get all dreamy and slobber.”

“Oh, honey, that is sure true enough, but you did squash your handful of popcorn to nothing but a bunch of crumbs.” She nodded at the table, which had bits of popcorn scattered across the top. “So, does he have any idea who did in Conway?”

“He's not talking if he does, but I got a few names that fit and—”

“And sweet mother above, there goes one already on the list,” Mercedes said in a rush and jumped up, pointing across the crowd. “It's the guy who did the jab-and-stab on Conway at the Slumber.” Mercedes snagged my hand and zigzagged through the crowd, elbowing patrons out of the way till we stumbled out onto the sidewalk.

“Do you see him?” I asked Mercedes.

“There.” She pointed to a newer white pickup passing right in front of us. “Brown hair, short dude, cowboy hat, that's him all right. He must have spotted me and took off.” She pursed her lips. “So I ask you, what kind of man goes after a dead guy? It's the craziest thing I ever saw since I started over at the Slumber. Conway's layout is tomorrow; you got to come, you know this nut-job is bound to show up. He's sure enough got something against Conway.”

I slapped my hand against my forehead. “Did you happen to get his license plate?”

Mercedes gave me a
duh
look.

“Think you'd recognize the guy without the hat?”

“I'm counting on him recognizing me at the funeral and making a run for it again, just like he did. You need to be around to give chase if it happens.” Mercedes posed a hip and rolled her shoulders. “My womanly roundness isn't as agile as your skinny self for that kind of thing.”

“Hey, you outdid me just now.”

“And I used it all up in one big swoop. Now it's your turn.”

We headed for Mercedes's pink Caddy, and I gave her the lecture on there being a killer playing for keeps and that she needed to be careful. She dropped me off at Cherry House and I promised to get to the funeral. The upstairs light in Auntie KiKi's bedroom was on, meaning she and Putter were settled in for the night. I opened the back door to the Bruce Willis welcoming committee of puppy whines and tail wagging. That's the thing with dogs; no matter how crappy the day went and even if your hair had roots and you'd been hiding in a pantry and looked like death warmed over, your doggie was glad to see you.

We trotted upstairs and I did my minimal night prep, and then we collapsed into bed, with my feet dangling over the edge and BW sprawled out in the hall, his new favorite place for catching the breeze coming up the steps. My body wanted sleep, but my brain was on overdrive. Who was at Boone's house and left the picture? Who was Mercedes's blade man, and if Boone didn't do more than kiss me soon, I was joining the
nunnery.

“W
HY
in the world did it take you so long to get home last night?” KiKi wanted to know the next morning as she watched me dump the debris from the hole in the porch roof into the garbage can. “I did my part and got rid of the cops for you; what more was there?”

“There was Boone hiding in the pantry.” I tossed in the rotting shingles.

“Sweet Jesus in heaven, what was the man doing in there?”

“Eating crackers and peanut butter. He said the neighbors are keeping an eye on the place and saw our intruder. Guess they called Big Joey or something. Anyway, I showed him the picture and we were right, he'd never seen it before. Best I can tell, he doesn't have any idea who's setting him up,
though he probably wouldn't tell me if he did. Like always he wants me to stay out of it.”

“And if he has an ounce of sense he knows you're not.” KiKi sat down on the little wooden stool I had behind the counter. “Did he happen to let slip the names of any suspects?”

“No, but Mercedes has someone in mind.” I swept up the last of the roof shrapnel and tossed it in the can. “When she was getting Conway spiffed up for his last big fling, some guy barged in and stabbed Conway right there on the table in front of her. Scared her to death.” I rolled my eyes. “Sorry, the death thing just slipped out. Anyway, she figures it's someone who wants Conway real dead, and the chances are good he'll show up at Conway's wake tonight. She thinks we need to be there and chat him up, find out who he is.” I lugged the garbage can to the side of the house.

“We?” KiKi asked, following me back into the shop. “Remember the last funeral
we
attended at the Slumber? The wigs, the upside-down fern, the fire department, and we had to hide in the bushes. I hate hiding in bushes; it's downright undignified for a woman my age. Think I'll pass this time around.”

“You're going to make me go all alone?” I folded my arms and gave my dear auntie a hard look. “Something's up. No way would you miss the social event of the month, and you belong to the Plantation Club so you and Uncle Putter have to go because Conway was president. Fact is, not going would be a sacrilege. The only reason you're holding out is that you need a favor, a big one. Let me guess, you got another single doctor who needs a date.”

KiKi fiddled with a display of earrings I had on the
checkout counter. “Not that.” She bit her bottom lip, then threw her arms wide open and looked skyward. “I can't take it anymore. It's the Shakin' Seniors. One more dance lesson with Melvin Pettigrew and I'm tossing myself in the river. His hands are everywhere they have no business being. If Putter sees him in action there's going to be a duel out at Forsyth Park, and unless it involves golf clubs Putter will lose.”

“Melvin's eighty-something, you can take him.”

“Melvin's an octopus with bad breath. I need a break. I'm starting to get hives.” KiKi held out her arms with red welts.

“Tell him to back off.”

“Tell BW to be a watchdog.”

“I get your point. All right, all right, I'll teach the class. Just one.”

“Two, since I got two arms with hives.”

“Fine. Besides, nothing can be worse than teaching the fox-trot to the teens.” I looked at KiKi. “Did you just say ‘wanna bet' under your breath?”

“I'll meet you at the Slumber at seven-ish by the big fern next to the tea table. Don't touch the fern, don't let Uncle Putter chip fallen rose petals into the casket, and most important of all, save me some windmill cookies.”

KiKi headed off for a mambo lesson with the Dunlaps at eleven. They planned a Caribbean cruise and wanted to do it up in style. Two customers brought in clothes that I had to pass on, being as they were more Goodwill than prissy. At twelve sharp AnnieFritz and Elsie Abbott trotted up the front walk, with a big wicker basket slung over Elsie's arm.
I'd asked them to watch the shop while Chantilly and I stirred things up over at the Plantation Club.

The Abbott sisters lived next to me on the other side in a small Greek Revival–style house. They were left the place by Cousin Willie, who proclaimed sausage gravy and biscuits the fifth food group and was now chowing down at the great fat farm in the sky. Elsie and AnnieFritz were retired teachers and supplemented their income by renting themselves out as professional mourners. No one got the grieving attendees at a wake sobbing louder and longer than the sisters. They were top billing for all the major funerals, and for a 30 percent discount on funeral wear at the Prissy Fox they were happy to fill in when needed.

“I suppose you'll be attending Conway's funeral tonight?” I said to the sisters as they came inside.

Elsie pulled a lovely pink doily from the basket and fluffed it open across the desk as AnnieFritz unpacked a flowered teapot and matching china cups. “Oh, honey, you know we are. We're pulling out all the stops. Sister and I've been practicing like crazy to make sure we can hit the anguished high notes. We brought along our special lemon tea to keep our vocal cords warmed up. It's our duty to give Mr. Adkins a proper send-off now. Botching this would be mighty bad for business, mighty bad indeed.”

AnnieFritz cleared her throat, squared her shoulders, and let out with a sorrowful howl that nearly had me breaking into a fit of tears for no reason at all. BW stood beside her, licking her hand in sympathy, and Elsie passed around the box of tissues to the others in the store, who were now sobbing.

“I think you nailed it.” My breath caught; a tear slid down my cheek and I had no idea why.

“They don't pay us the big bucks for nothing.” Elsie went over to the round table in what was once the dining room. She picked up a black lacy hat with a wide brim and simple black rose. “And I do believe this will be a nice addition to my ensemble, don't you agree, sister dear? We always need to be updating our attire and looking our best. Steffy Lou is even having us at the burial out at Bonaventure tomorrow morning to give her loving father-in-law a final tearful good-bye. Isn't that the sweetest thing ever? We can't be wearing the same thing to the wake and the burial, now can we, it just wouldn't be proper at all.”

AnnieFritz poured out the lemon tea, added drops of honey, and took the cups to the ladies shopping. Not doing so would be the epitome of bad manners and not like the sisters at all. I started in on my tea as Chantilly strutted her stuff into the shop.

“So, girlfriend, what do you think?” Chantilly smoothed her hand over her dress and jutted one blue sequin-clad hip. She batted her long fake eyelashes. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared openmouthed. Least it brought the crying to an end.

I led Chantilly out onto the porch and whispered, “Are you trying to get into the Plantation Club or just
do
everyone in the club?”

Chantilly harrumphed. “You said you wanted a diversion. I figure this here is a diversion. I said I was going slutty.”

“Asking the time of day is a diversion, and I was thinking
tight jeans and sweater. Remember the closet Pillsbury mentioned? This is one way to get there quick.”

Chantilly fluffed her sprayed and shellacked hair. “Here's the thing: I figured if I just showed up in something marginally offensive the receptionist at the club would tell me to make an appointment and put us off for another day and then another and so on. If I show up in this little number that I wore at a Tina Turner costume party last year and if I threaten to hang around the club till I see Dixon, they'll get him right quick. I'll ask a bunch of stupid questions about the club, drive him crazy, and you can look around while I keep him busy and everyone else looking on.”

“What if he calls the cops?”

“For what? Wearing sequins in the middle of the day? My guess is he'll be polite and give me the 411. I'll tell him I'll think about it and leave.” Chantilly turned serious. “Walker is Pillsbury's best friend, and Walker helped me when I had problems with Simon. I owe him. Let's see what falls out of the plantation tree when we give it a little shake.”

“This is more hurricane than shake, but I get your point. Fifteen minutes should do it. We get in and we get out and if things blow up the way they sometimes do, you get out of there and take care of yourself.” I grabbed Old Yeller from under the counter, and Chantilly and I moseyed to the car.

“You'll have to drive the Jeep.” Chantilly heaved a deep sigh and reluctantly passed over the keys as we crossed the street. “I'm having a devil of a time driving a stick shift in six-inch heels, and if I take these things off I'm never getting them back on. They give a whole new meaning to
tight
.”

I took the keys, but she didn't let go. “Be careful, okay? I love this car.”

“I'm a good driver.”

“Uh-huh.”

I slid behind the wheel and Chantilly levered herself, her heels, and her hairdo into the passenger side. Cherry House and Rose Gate were in the Victorian district of Savannah, and we headed for the historic district and the Plantation Club. Deciding a Jeep was not in sync with Chantilly's outfit, I parked a block away and we hoofed it to the club, causing two accidents along the way.

“My friend here would like to talk to Mr. Dixon about membership in the Plantation Club,” I said to the gal behind the reception desk. “Think he can spare a little time to explain things to her?”

“He's busy.” The receptionist, in a navy suit and white blouse, gave Chantilly a disapproving stare. “You'll have to make an appointment, and he's really busy for the month, maybe the next two months or even three.”

Chantilly waved her hand in the air. “Why, I just bet he's tied up with all sorts of important things that go on around here, so I'll just wait out front of this fine establishment till he can squeeze me in.”

“Out front?” The receptionist jumped out of her chair. “Like on the sidewalk out front? Sweet Jesus save us, you can't be doing a thing like that.”

“Well now, don't you worry your pretty little head about me.” Chantilly tsked. “Of course I can wait by the door. It's a fine day, not a cloud in the sky.”

The receptionist shagged Chantilly by the elbow. “No need to go outside, you can wait in the Robert E. Lee room and I'll find Mr. Dixon right quick.” Chantilly teetered on her spike heels and gave me a little finger wave over her shoulder as she followed the receptionist down the hall. Since the club watchdog was now preoccupied with Chantilly and her sequins and had forgotten all about little ol' me, I headed off in the other direction and made for the back service stairway, which I knew about from when Boone and I were trying to get information.

“Hey,” a waiter called to me as I ran up the steps. “What are you doing back here? This isn't for guests.”

“I'm . . . a new hire,” I said, flashing a bright smile. “And . . . and I'm looking for Mr. Dixon because . . . some floozy wants to talk to him about being a member. She's threatening to wait outside till he finds time to meet with her. We can't have that now, can we? What will people think is going on around here? The receptionist told me to check Mr. Dixon's office, and maybe you can look for him in the bar area? He's not picking up his cell.”

“Gate crashers is what we call them around here,” the waiter said with a big smile. “I'll get on it.” He hurried off and I panted my way up to the third floor, making a solemn promise that if I didn't have a heart attack I'd take up a morning activity other than eating doughnuts.

Peeking around the corner, I spotted Dixon getting into the small elevator, and as the door slid closed I made for his office. I let myself in and gently closed the door behind me. If Dixon owed Conway money he'd have a record of it, something signed and dated. He could keep the information at
his house, but more than likely any money transactions between Conway and Dixon happened here. From what I'd heard, Conway and Dixon didn't have a
let's do lunch
kind of relationship. It was more likely that the reason Conway lent Dixon money was to lord it over him. Those two deserved each other.

Dixon was a neatnik with things all nice and tidy. A calendar of events for June sat next to a stack of invitations for the annual summer ball, and next to that was a club member application from some guy named Grayden Russell. His residence was the Old Harbor Inn. I stared at the application. Boone had mentioned Grayden Russell's name the night we switched modes of transportation—something about Russell being out to get him? I had no idea who this guy was or why he was after Boone.

The side drawer held club stationery; the other side drawer was packed with power bars and M&Ms. The middle drawer was stuck. I didn't have time for stuck. Chantilly was downstairs playing for time, and I didn't trust Mason Dixon any further than I could throw him. I pulled harder; something was still holding it in place till I gave one more yank. The drawer gave way, sending me stumbling backward as it sailed out of the slot, hit the floor, and flipped over, and a .38 duct-taped to the underside slid off.