Demise in Denim (6 page)

Whoa! Guess the Plantation Club wasn't all jasmine and sweet tea; the boys knew how to play rough. Carefully, I picked up the gun and the tape to reattach it, and there stuck to the tape was a picture. Holy Moses, it was another happy-family photo. Not exactly like the one at Boone's house, but close. I almost dropped the blasted gun.

I sat on the floor, because my legs were jelly, and tried to make sense of what was going on in front of me. If Dixon had this photo, he knew Conway was Boone's father. Conway Adkins didn't lend Dixon money—he
gave
it to him? The money was a bribe to Dixon to keep his mouth shut? Conway might have told Tucker that he had a brother, but only after Mrs. Adkins died. Having Walker as part of the Adkins family had been a deal-breaker since the get-go. My guess was Conway had been paying Dixon off for years.

A piercing screech filled the club. Fire alarm? I crawled over to the window. No smoke billowing out the front, but whatever was going on, the fire department would arrive in minutes and here I was in Dixon's office with a gun in my lap and my best friend downstairs in all her slutty glory. If we made the papers, Pillsbury and Boone would be in lecture mode—
What were you thinking?
—for months, and of course Chantilly and I would be sharing that closet.

With the alarm blaring, sirens approaching, and my hands shaking, I taped the picture and gun to the underside of the drawer, then scooped up the pens, pencils, Tic Tacs, and other office paraphernalia and slid the drawer back in. I peeked out into the hall to make sure the coast was clear and that no one saw me leaving the office. I tore down the steps as firefighters galloped up. I put my hands over my face and did some faked coughing and gagging, even though there wasn't any smoke. I pointed upstairs. “Dogs, cats, kids.”

Any firefighter worth his hose would go after a dog, cat, and kid. Then I bolted out the open rear door into the back alley and smashed flat into a blue pinstriped suit with a red carnation. Dixon! Eye-to-eye, we both stared at each other
for a split second as Dixon tried to remember who I was. I took the opportunity to dash for the Dumpster, then on to the next alley, coming out on Barnard. The street was clogged with fire trucks, EMS units, and cops, but no Chantilly and no smoke.

“Psst” came from a Jeep double-parked next to a police cruiser. Chantilly's eyes peered at me just above the window line; her once-bouffant hair now tumbled around her head and her makeup was smeared. I ran for the Jeep and jumped in, and Chantilly laid rubber before I had the door shut.

“You're a mess,” I said, taking in her hair and clothes. “Did you get caught in the fire?”

“The old goat chased me around that Robert E. Lee room, and he's a fast little devil. Had me sweating like a pig.”

“You're kidding!”

Chantilly cut her eyes my way and snarled. “This is not the look of frivolity. I dodged that no-good louse as long as I could to give you time in his office, but when he pinched my butt I hit him with my shoe and then the fire alarm went off, thank heavens. I figured you saw what was going on and pulled the alarm to save me.”

“Must have been one of the employees with a conscience who saw what was going on. Why would Dixon do such a thing and not think you'd go to the cops or at least tell someone what the jerk's like?”

“He said no one would believe the likes of trampy me over the sophisticated likes of him, but at least I'm okay now. I lost my shoe in the chaos and worked up an appetite, but as soon as I get a meat loaf sandwich from Parkers with extra provolone I'll be fit as a fiddle. An apple a day may
keep the doctor away, but we all know that meat loaf from Parkers is good for the Southern soul.”

I added an amen because it seemed fitting, and then we headed down Drayton. We pulled into Parkers, where a body can fill up their car and themselves all at one stop. Chantilly kept the Jeep running and I knew the deli squad well enough to ask for asap service; five minutes later Chantilly and I were at Emmet Park under the massive oaks in front of the Old Harbor Inn munching meat loaf and slurping Diet Coke to offset the calories from the extra provolone.

“So tell me this wasn't all for nothing,” Chantilly said around a mouthful. “Did you find Dixon's IOU to Conway? If Dixon killed Conway he wouldn't have to pay it off, and that sounds like motive to me.”

“Things are little more complicated.” I slurped up a chunk of meat loaf. “I found a picture of Conway with Boone's mom, and she was holding him as a baby. The photo was taped under Dixon's desk along with a .38 Special. That means Dixon knew Conway was Boone's dad long before two nights ago, and my guess was Dixon was blackmailing Conway. The money wasn't a loan from Conway; it was a payoff. As much as Dixon is a creep and a letch and basically loathsome in every way, this kind of kicks him out as murdering Conway. I mean, why would he kill the goose that lays the golden egg?” I took another bite of my sandwich, and Chantilly dropped hers in her lap.

“Holy freaking tomatoes and I'll be a monkey's uncle,” she said on a long exhale. “I never saw that one coming. I wonder how Dixon found out about Conway and Walker, and how did he get the picture?”

“Conway and Dixon had offices next to each other; maybe he overheard something. Maybe he snooped.”

Chantilly licked a glob of provolone off her thumb and picked up her sandwich. “Maybe Conway got tired of Dixon's threats and refused to pay, and Dixon killed him. That guy is no Southern gentleman, I can tell you that. I'm mighty glad someone pulled that fire alarm. Not that I couldn't have gotten out on my own, but with the added commotion I didn't cause a scene.”

Chantilly polished off her sandwich. “I've got to get back to Rachelle; she's cooking up a storm at the shop and I've had the pulled pork simmering since last night. We're catering a light dinner for the Adkins family and close friends tonight after the wake. Business is really good.”

“If you got caught in this dress at the Plantation Club, it might not be so good.”

Chantilly batted her eyes. “Honey, you're forgetting this is Savannah; everyone around here loves a touch of scandal now and then, and our business would probably double. Besides, no one can resist my pulled pork and mac and cheese.”

•   •   •

Chantilly dropped me at Cherry House, and the Abbott sisters headed for home to rest up and gargle in preparation for the evening activities. I hung up the latest clothes brought in, then locked up the Fox at five and fed and watered BW. Going with the idea that anything was better than my two-toned hair that everyone saw fit to tell me about, I decided to go blonde, mostly because I found a
bottle of Summer Sunshine dye back in the closet. I dumped on the goop, wrapped my head like a fortune-teller, and spent the thirty-minute wait time doing laundry since I was down to my last pair of panties.

I headed for the shower and by six thirty I was dressed in basic black and the pearl earrings and bracelet Mamma gave me for my sixteenth birthday, and carefully backing the Chevy out of the garage. That I'd gotten two wolf whistles and a hubba-hubba on my way to the Slumber gave me an ounce of confidence that I didn't look too bad. That the attention was all for the Chevy was a possibility I refused to consider.

I berthed the sexmobile in a pay lot where I had plenty of room so as not to ding it, then teetered off toward the Slumber in my three-inch heels. Okay, three wasn't all that many inches for heels, I'll give you that, but when you're used to flip-flops it presented a real challenge.

The House of Eternal Slumber was a pristine white frame dating back to eighteen-something-or-other with an original wrought-iron widow's walk and multiple add-ons that had been built as it went from family to family to deadly business.

I joined the somber procession up the main brick walk lined with tulips and daffodils. I avoided the long reception line of
I'm so sorry
and
doesn't he look great
and
did they catch Walker Boone yet
and headed for the tea table, better known as ground zero for the latest news from the kudzu vine. The scent of flowers, mints, and bourbon hung in the air, the Abbott sisters did an award-winning job of wailing over by the sleeping Conway, and the horde of guests sniffed and sobbed into starched white hankies. There was even a
piano player softly playing music to die by. It was indeed a perfect Savannah funeral.

I snagged a windmill cookie, looked for KiKi, and spotted Tucker Adkins ducking out of the reception line and heading straight for
me.

“W
ELL
,
did you find Boone?” Tucker asked in a low voice, his whiskey breath washing over me as he backed me into a corner. He pulled up next to a gargantuan flower arrangement with a white “Conway” sash across the front, just in case someone forgot who was in the big wooden box across the room.

“I have no idea where Boone is,” I said, hoping I was convincing. “We can talk later. Right now you have guests to attend to and—”

“Forget them. I just want that guy found and the sooner the better, and you want the same thing, right?” Tucker plucked a lily from a display sent with deepest sympathy from Mason Dixon, probably bought with Conway's very own bribe money. Tucker squashed the flower in his hand
and ground his teeth. He looked around as if Boone would pop out from behind a fern. “Where the devil is that guy?”

“I'm guessing you loved your dad more than you thought you did?”

“Yeah, right. It must be because every time we were alone since Mother died, he'd throw Walker up to me.
Why can't you be self-sufficient like Walker? He's successful, respected, and what happened to you? You're not half the man he is and you've had every advantage.
Yeah, like the advantage of being hounded. Do you know what it's like to have your brother who you didn't even know you had tossed in your face day after day?”

“I'm an only child.”

“Yeah, well, that's my plan, too. I want to see Boone rot in jail, and it needs to happen quick.”

Tucker stormed off, the quick statement echoing in my ears. This brotherly hatred thing ran a little deeper than I expected, and if Conway did constantly toss Boone in Tucker's face I could understand why. But why was time an issue? Why go after Boone now?

Auntie KiKi handed me a cup of tea. She lowered her head and the brim of her big black hat covered the fact that she pulled out her little silver flask and discreetly poured a splash or maybe three splashes into the china cup. “Now you know why Southern ladies wear big hats to funerals.”

“Alleluia,” I said, taking a sip and letting the contents burn a path to my stomach.

“I figured you needed it after having a friendly chat with the local resident sociopath. I heard the conversation. The man takes jealousy to a whole new level, and frankly I sort
of understand. But why does he need to find Walker so quick? His daddy's dead, he can't get any deader.”

“Good question.” I took another gulp of tea; my head was starting to swim, but overall I was mellowing out till I spotted Mason Dixon coming in the door. “Give me the hat, I'm desperate,” I said to KiKi.

KiKi took out the flask and I stuffed it back in her purse. “Not that.”

“I thought you were talking code for ‘more, please.'”

I snagged KiKi's hat off her head and jammed it on mine, pulling the brim down in front. “Mason Dixon's over there in the receiving line. I don't need him to connect me to Conway, and if he sees me here he'll know something's up.”

“And he would do that because . . .”

“Chantilly and I sort of paid him a visit this afternoon, and I sort of rifled through his office upstairs as he chased her around a conference room downstairs. I collided with him while exiting when the fire trucks came. He had a picture of
the
happy family taped to the bottom of a drawer, so I'm guessing he was blackmailing our present man of honor.”

“Sweet mother, where in blazes was I when all this was going on?”

“Dancing.” I gave KiKi a little push. “Go find out if he knows it was me in his office. You're a member of the Plantation Club; ask him about the fire department and the blue sequins and see how he reacts.”

KiKi's jaw dropped. “
That
was you? There were sequins and the fire department and I wasn't invited?”

“The fire part wasn't planned.”

KiKi harrumphed and trotted off as Mercedes came up beside me. “Did you see him? He's right over there.”

“I know, honey, and you did a mighty fine job. The makeup's perfect, only a slight indent where that bullet went in between his eyes.” Not that I'd looked, but it was one of those little white lies to be nice to Mercedes and save me face time with the dead.

“Not Conway,” she hissed. “Stabber guy. I told you he'd show up.” Mercedes scooted behind me and crouched lower. “He's in a blue sports coat and spotty mustache and standing by himself and looking pissed.” She nodded across the room. “Go talk to him, find out who he is.”

“I know nothing about him, and
why do you hate Conway?
isn't a great conversation starter.”

Mercedes pursed her lips. “Just how long has it been since you did a little flirting?”

“I can't count that high, and you really expect me to hit on a guy at a funeral? Isn't there a law or something?”

“Are you kidding? Weddings and funerals are where all the action happens. Most everyone here is over fifty and graying, so you got a better-than-average chance of getting chummy with the guy, or at least you would if you didn't have that purse. Yellow? Really? Say something subtle like
nice jacket, great stache, how do you know the deceased?
” She gave me a quick once-over. “But the hat's got to go.”

Before I could stop her, Mercedes whipped off the hat. I grabbed for it and tripped, and my tea poured down the front of my dress, drawing everyone's attention. Stabber guy's gaze landed on Mercedes, his eyes widening in recognition. He hustled for the front door as Mason Dixon headed for
me. Guess that answered the question of him connecting the dots of me being at the club this afternoon and in his office, which was probably not quite the way he left it.

“Go out the back and catch him there.” Mercedes pointed to the hallway.

It was either hang around here and face Dixon and his questions about me being in his office or catch up with Mercedes's mystery man. Maybe this time I'd get the license plate. I ran for the door.

Outside the traffic on Price Street was light but the Slumber parking lot was jammed. I stopped to see which car lights blinked on, and as I turned around, the white pickup barreled toward me; I stumbled back and somehow got propelled into the bushes far enough so as to not get squashed flat on the pavement.

“Are you okay?” Mercedes wanted to know as she bustled out the door and the pickup merged into the traffic. “Did you get the plates?”

“
JT
is all I saw.” I looked around. “I have no idea how I didn't get run over.”

“You must have jumped. An adrenaline rush. These things happen. So now we got a white pickup, Georgia plates, and the two letters. It's more than we had before. We could get Ross to help us.”

I gave Mercedes an
are you out of your mind
look.

“Right, no cops. They wouldn't be happy that we're sticking our noses in this. I better go back inside to make sure no one's dropped something on Conway or is giving him a hard time.”

“Honey, the man's dead. The hard times have passed.”

“You'd be plumb amazed how many people feel a need to touch and poke the dead guy. Guess they think they can wake him up or something.” Mercedes gritted her teeth. “You need to wipe yourself off before getting back in Mr. Boone's fine car. Tea stains on white upholstery would be downright criminal. You can use the bathroom in the composition wing.” Mercedes nodded to the addition. “First door to the left.”

“Composition wing?”

“Don't ask.” Mercedes went back inside and I ducked into the next door down; the hallway was eerily quiet except for a few creaks and maybe a moan or two, but that was strictly an old house settling, and the fact that this happened to be a newer addition was beside the point. I pushed open the bathroom, done up nicely in mauve and gray with a little love seat and Steffy Lou Adkins sitting there smoking a cigarette. She froze midpuff, eyes huge, and she dropped the cigarette. “I . . . I . . .”

I picked up the cigarette and handed it back to her. “You don't have to explain to me. This is a most difficult time. I'm truly sorry for your loss.”

The local consignment shop gal and the owner of stately Lillibridge House didn't exactly travel in the same social circles, so I knew Steffy Lou Adkins only via tales of the kudzu vine and Auntie KiKi.

“Why, I thank you kindly for that.” Steffy Lou took another long draw off the cigarette, the red tip glowing bright and the nicotine relaxing her a bit. She eyed Old Yeller for a second and, doing the Southern-lady thing, tried her best not to shudder.

“I gave up this completely disgusting habit years ago,” she said, studying her cigarette. “It's terrible bad for my singing voice and all, but sometimes . . . Well, this has all been so overwhelming with losing Daddy Conway. No one is ever prepared for such a tragedy in their life, and to think that Walker Boone is suspected of doing the deed is devastating indeed. The doctor even gave me some pills to try to calm me down, but nothing's working.” She took another puff of the cigarette. “This is all so dreadful.”

She looked at me with a critical eye, her cigarette poised midair. “I know you, you're that girl who was on TV. You said you were trying to get even with Walker because he did you an injustice.”

Steffy Lou shook her head and puffed, the soft curls of smoke fading into air. “Everyone is indeed entitled to their own opinion in this here world, but I must say that you've got it all wrong with Walker. I'm sorry about your divorce, I truly am, but he's one of the good guys. I don't care what the evidence says; Walker Boone didn't kill Conway. He'd never do such a terrible thing. It's just not like Walker at all.” Her voice wobbled and she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

Okay, this did not reflect her husband Tucker's view on the situation at all. I wetted a towel and swiped at my tea stains, but I was more interested in Steffy Lou's take on what was going on than my dress. “You know Boone?”

“Oh my, yes. We're on the Tybee Post Theater committee to save it from the wrecking ball and now from the greedy developers who want to buy it outright. It's such a lovely theater out there on Tybee Island, and I planned this dinner
and talent show coming up to make money to help save the place. Walker did all the legal work for free, bless his heart. We worked together morning, noon, and night to get the papers filled out just right. The committee's trying mighty hard to get the theater on the National Registry to save it; we're even having those special car license plates issued to draw interest. The very night Walker was charged with murder and had so much on his mind, he came to warn me that this Grayden Russell person wanted to buy the theater and that I might be in danger if I didn't go along with it. Now I ask you, does that sound like a cold-blooded killer? He was worried about me more than himself.”

I dropped the towel. “Who
is
this Grayden Russell guy? He's new in town?”

“From Charleston. Up there they all think they're better than we are down here in Savannah, but the way I see it they are the ones closer to those Yankees. Seems Russell came here with his sights set on buying the theater to turn it into a resort of some nature that's bound to be dreadful. Walker felt that Russell intended to get rid of the two of us as a warning to the theater committee to sell.”

Steffy Lou sat up straight and raised her chin. “Well, let me tell you, that tactic might work up North where he comes from, but it doesn't stand a chance here in Savannah.”

She snuffed out her cigarette in a little silver compact she obviously kept for smoking lapses and snapped the evidence closed up neatly inside. She stood, shoulders back, head high, eyes set. “That man will never, and I do mean never, get his hands on the Tybee Theater if it takes my last dying breath.” She poked herself in the chest. “I am of the theater,
a patron of the arts. A performer. As God is my witness, the theater will be saved.”

I waited for a band to strike up “Dixie,” but when that didn't happen I offered, “My auntie took me to see
Peter Pan
there when I was little. It was fantastic.”

Steffy Lou smiled, her eyes sparking. “Oh my goodness, I played one of the Lost Boys.” She cleared her voice and let out a pretty decent rendition of “I Won't Grow Up” right there in the composition addition bathroom.

I applauded and Steffy Lou bowed. The whole thing seemed a little odd, but Steffy Lou deserved a smile. She'd just lost her father-in-law, who'd seemed to treat her well, and the poor woman had married Tucker Adkins, God help her.

“I best get back,” she said, tossing a mint in her mouth and adding a spritz of something vanilla from a little atomizer to kill all evidence of smoker gone wild. She obviously had this experience down to a science.

“Everyone will be wondering where I am.” She opened the door and glanced back to me. “I sure do hope you change your mind about Walker Boone being guilty. He's a fine man, he truly is. He deserves better than he's getting, I can tell you that, but things seem to be stacking up against him and I don't rightly know how to turn it all around. I'm truly afraid for him.”