Killer in Crinolines (13 page)

“Simon worked at the bank.” KiKi added. “Setting up dummy accounts and making things look legit is something he knew how to do. That guy was one smooth operator and he was into the scam business. He told Reese this was a sweet deal he’d come across and Reese needed to get in on it right quick before it was too late.”

I flipped through a few more screens on the computer. “It looks like a terrific country club. Best I can tell it’s supposed to be someplace between Savannah and Bluffton. It can draw from both locations and the Hilton Head group. No wonder Reese fell for it. Says here they have a five-star chef lined up from Atlanta for the restaurant and some golf pro guy from Florida. Look at the mockups for the décor. If I could afford it, I’d invest. It’s gorgeous. This is a lot of work just to scam Reese Waverly.”

“Reese is no dummy. It had to look good. If we knew for sure that Simon signed a prenup, that would make our speculation about the scam and Reese wanting him dead a lot more believable. Right now we’re just guessing.” KiKi took a drink and looked at me out of the corner of her eyes. “Walker Boone would know.”

“You’ll have to ask him. He never tells me anything.”

“Bet if you showed up in that belly-dancing outfit, he’d tell you whatever you wanted to hear.”

I put down the empty glass, my thinking powers severely compromised. “What does that mean?”

“I’m just saying it had some effect on the old boy, is all.”

KiKi headed back home for an evening of bachelorette bliss of chick-flick movies that Putter would hate and a tub of low-fat popcorn, taking the lose-a-few-pounds idea to heart. After a dinner of Cheerios I leashed up BW. Humidity hovered around 150 percent, making everyone a little shiny and coated with a fine layer of Savannah sweat.

Going to see Boone was probably a big waste of time but he was my best shot on finding out if Simon had indeed signed a prenup other than asking Reese outright. That didn’t seem like a great idea if indeed Reese killed Simon or more accurately had him killed. Boone and Reese were in cahoots over something and a prenup with a conniving future son-in-law had to have come up at sometime.

Not that Boone would tell me what was going on, but over the last few years I had learned to sort of read him. When I was way off base about something Boone was ready with a sarcastic comment. If he yawned, then sat back and looked bored I was getting closer to the truth, and if he had his blank lawyer face in place and said nothing, I’d hit pay dirt.

Trying to ignore Kiki’s belly-dancing comment, I knew the powers of Angel’s pulled pork sandwich with Voodoo sauce and a side of mac and cheese. Boone would need the mac and cheese to put out the fire from the Voodoo sauce.

A
NGEL’S
was up on West Oglethorpe, a long trot from East Gaston, but Bruce Willis seemed to be in a walking kind of mood and I needed to walk off that martini. After we picked up our order from Angel’s we headed for the land of the rich and prosperous, also known as Madison Square. We passed the Green-Meldrim House, now part of the Episcopal church and a far better use of the place than the commandeered residence where Sherman set up shop.

Boone’s house dated back to the 1880s and had a raised entrance to keep the place clean from back-in-the-day dirt streets. It was Federal-style beige and Savannah lovely with original black shutters and side verandas made for sitting a spell and chatting on a hot summer night. Not that I could see Boone doing much of either on any night.

I took the stairs to the covered porch with lush green ferns and overflowing urns of red geraniums and white petunias. Either Boone had one heck of a green thumb or his gardener knew his stuff. My bet was on the gardener. It wasn’t the best of manners to come calling at night unannounced but manners weren’t Boone’s strong suit. Besides, I had food, some of Savannah’s most tasty, and that overrode manners any day of the week.

I whammed the pineapple doorknocker a few times, waited, then gave it another try. “What?” Boone said, yanking open the front door. His eyes were red and bloodshot, chin lined with thick don’t-mess-with-me stubble. His feet were bare and he had on jeans and a gray T-shirt that was old and frayed.

“You need to shop.”

“Thank you, Christian Dior. Go bother someone else.” Boone gave BW a pat, started to close the door till I held up a brown bag,
Angel’s
scripted on the side. “I bring tidings of great joy.”

Boone parked his hand on his lean hip, the tiniest of smiles at the corners of his mouth. “Angel’s. I get it.” He grabbed the bag and came out onto the porch. He sat down on the top step, ripped the foil from the sandwich, and took a bite as if he hadn’t eaten all day. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“You never thank me for anything.”

“That’s because until now there was no reason.” He took another bite. “We need beer.” He handed me the sandwich.

“I’ll get it,” I offered, handing the sandwich back. “Tell me where.”

“And it gives you a chance to check out my house,” he said, taking another bite.

“There is that.” I dropped Old Yeller on the step, then opened the front door to the entrance hall, living room to the right. In the corner stood one lonely Louis-the-something secretary, a beat-up leather couch facing the fireplace—women had shoes and purses, men had leather couches—a huge desk with the light on, papers scattered over the surface and spilling onto the floor. An ugly table, chairs, and buffet occupied the dining room and more than likely they came with the house, costing more to move them than they were worth. The kitchen had old appliances and a faux wood laminate dinette set the former owners had probably left as well. At this rate I imagined Boone’s bedroom possessed an army cot and crates; not exactly in sync with his playboy reputation. I grabbed two Moon Rivers from the fridge and a bag of little carrots. The compatibility of beer and carrots was questionable, but I figured Boone’s eyes needed all the help they could get.

“And I thought I lived Spartan,” I said to Boone when I got back outside and took the step below him.

“Did you bring a fork for the mac and cheese?”

I dug around in the Angel’s bag and pulled out a spork. Personally I hated those things, which looked like they couldn’t make up their mind about which utensil to be, but I didn’t think Boone would care in his present state of feeding frenzy.

“The carrots belong to my cleaning lady.” Guess that was as good an excuse as any to skip veggies, so we twisted off the beer caps at the same time and both took a swig. Nothing better on a hot summer night in Savannah than cold beer.

“Why are you here?” he asked, looking better than he had a few minutes ago.

“To bring you food.”

“Meaning you want information and this is a bribe.” Boone leaned against one of the wrought-iron posts, me against the other, BW parked between us. “Where’s Hunky?”

“He and Uncle Putter drove to Atlanta for some kind of conference.”

“He’s not your type.”

“He has a job, opens my doors, and picks up the check. That makes him any woman’s type. Did Simon sign a prenup with Waynetta?”

Boone fed BW mac and cheese right off the spork, then finished the rest himself. “Don’t know anything about a prenup,” Boone mumbled around a mouthful. “Thought that was your specialty.”

“You’re mixed up with Reese Waverly some way and my guess is it involves Simon. I’m going to tell you what I think is going on and you can tell me how close I am to being right.”

“How’s that shop of yours doing these days?” Boone said, scraping out the bottom of the carton for the last bit.

“I’m not great at a lot of things, but I seem to be an ace at stirring up trouble and right now Reese Waverly has my full attention. Everyone thinks Simon intended to marry Waynetta for her money but my guess is Simon signed a prenup with Waynetta. That made Reese trust him, and then to show his gratitude Simon scammed Reese on a nonexistent golf course proposition. Reese realized what was going on and that Simon was also screwing around on his darling offspring so he had Sugar-Ray kill him at the wedding.”

“Why kill him? Why wouldn’t Reese just turn Simon over to the police?”

“Pride. He’d look like a gullible fool and people would laugh. Not an acceptable scenario for Reese Waverly the almighty.”

Boone looked at me for a long moment. He yawned and leaned back, his lawyer face firmly in place. “Someone needs to warn your doctor friend what a pain in the butt you are.”

A yawn, the lawyer face, and sarcasm all at the same time! Not fair! Something I said was right on, something close to being right and some part way off base. The question was what part belonged to what?

• • •

It was near midnight when Bruce Willis and I finally got home, East Gaston quiet and sleepy as if resting up for the next day. I learned nothing from Boone except he was working on some big case that was none of my business. I, on the other hand, adhered to the kudzu vine philosophy of since I lived in this city anything and everything that happened here was definitely my business.

Tomorrow I’d look up Sugar-Ray and we’d have a chat. He was a little scarier than I remembered, make that a lot scarier, and I wouldn’t expect him to throw his hands in the air yelling
I killed Simon.
After the graveyard episode I figured he fit into this murder somehow. Maybe he’d let something slip if I happened to let it slip that I saw him out at Bonaventure swilling white rum and packing a Smith & Wesson.

I pulled my house keys out of Old Yeller and the porch floorboards creaked behind me. It might be a raccoon or opossum but this was a heavy kind of creak making every hair on my body stand straight up and my lungs quit working. Besides, if a night creature did invade the porch, BW would have given chase by now. Instead he flopped down in rub-my-tummy pose, his tail on super-speed. I gripped my keys between my fingers like I’d seen in those self-defense shows and slowly turned around to face Icy Graham, eyes angry, jaw set, body hard and threatening. I needed something more than a house key.

“Hi,” I said all smiles. How could someone hurt little Miss Cheerful? “Can I help you with something?”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Second time tonight I heard that.”

“You should pay attention.” Icy grabbed my hand and threw my keys to the floor. “I know it was you and your friend talking to my daughter the other day.” His voice was low, menacing, fitting the name Icy. He shoved me against the front of the house, rattling the bay window and knocking the breath out of me. His hand closed around my throat, tightening, eyes blazing. “I saw you at the cemetery. Laura Lynn said a lady with a BMW and a woman that needed hair coloring talked to her about Simon. That be you. Stay away from my daughter. You got family. How would you like it if I was out to get them? Stay away from what’s mine or you’ll be sorry, sorrier than you can imagine.”

Icy let me go and ran down the steps to a truck parked across the street. He got in and took off. Jelly-legged I slid to the porch floor, gasping for air. BW came over and licked my face, then sat down beside me as I stroked his back for what seemed like forever, the rhythmic gesture soothing, my life settling back to normal.

Who was I kidding? There was no normal. I was hunting a killer and from what I just saw and felt, Icy Graham would have no qualms killing Simon. He’d have no qualms killing me. Of course the same was true of rifle-toting Reese Waverly. These men were light-years apart in a lot of respects but when it came to protecting their kids they were front and center. As much as I didn’t like either one I respected them for that.

I could call the police about Icy but it was my word against his and then he’d be doubly ticked off. I failed miserably at dealing with a singly ticked-off Icy Graham. Best to let this incident go, but I wanted a look at his truck. After our little encounter, I imagined he was the one who knocked me into the swamp and was a prime candidate for I-killed-Simon. Then again Reese had trucks out at the farm and knew I was snooping around and Pillsbury could
borrow
a truck anytime the spirit moved him and didn’t think much of Simon either. Even GracieAnn had access to the Cakery Bakery truck. I was running in circles.

I finally felt strong enough to stand. I held on to the porch railing to steady myself as Chantilly drove up in her Jeep. She kept the car running and hurried up the walk.

“You’re still awake, I don’t even have to get you out of bed.”

“If this is a one
A.M
. social call because you’re having an attack of insomnia, you need to know I’m a quart low on sympathy. Come back tomorrow. I’ll be better tomorrow, I promise.”

“Look.” She held up her iPhone and read, “
Meet me @ Simon’s ASAP. Info 2 prove u innocent
.” She grabbed my hand. “Come on, let’s go. This is great. We’re finally onto something. Someone’s helping us.”

“And you came here to get me because . . .”

“Because there’s a killer on the loose and the condo belongs to someone already dead and buried. It’s kind of creepy especially at night and this isn’t the kind of thing I want to face alone. But it’s still great. We got a lead.”

I didn’t agree with the great part but the lead reference had merit, and two minutes later I’d locked BW safely inside and was sitting beside Chantilly. She found a parking space courtesy of some late-night barfly finally heading home.

“I’ve already been though Simon’s place,” I said as we hoofed it the rest of way to the condo. “I found a book hidden in an ice cream carton in the freezer.”

Chantilly stopped dead right there on the sidewalk. “Get out of town! Why didn’t you tell me before? What was in the book? More people Simon swindled? What did it say? Now we have other suspects. This is a really good night. About time things turned around.”

“Someone knocked me down in the condo and stole the book before I had chance to look at it.”

Chantilly smacked her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “How could you let this happen? Who do you think took it?”

“Do you know anything about Simon and a golf course?”

“As far as I know he didn’t play, but maybe Reese was getting him into the game. Rich man’s sport and all that.”

We crossed the street and I pointed up to Simon’s condo on the second floor. “The lights are off. They’re connected to a timer; they should be on.”

“Unless whoever’s in there is trying to keep a low profile. They didn’t want to meet in a public place so that must be it, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe’s good.” Chantilly took a deep breath through clenched teeth and punched the code to get us inside the building. When we reached Simon’s door Chantilly knocked softly. She knocked again.

“This doesn’t feel right,” I said, little pinpricks of unease running up my spine. It was a night full of things not being right.

Chantilly plucked a key from her purse. “Let’s hope Simon was a lazy slug and didn’t change the locks on me. Last time I was here the key worked.”

“Last time? How long ago was last time?”

“About a week. Had a Simon meltdown followed by a doughnut binge. These things happen.” Chantilly took hold of the doorknob to insert the key but it opened on its own.

“Hello,” Chantilly called out.

“Wait,” I said holding tight on to her arm. “Open door means someone’s inside. I learned that the hard way.”

I took Chantilly’s hand and together we stepped inside. “Anybody here?” Chantilly singsonged. “It’s me, Chantilly, dying to hear more about the information that’s going to prove me innocent.”

“Dying? Really?” I whispered, getting a
shush
in reply. I flicked the light switch by the door. No lights. The faint glow from the street sliced in through the blinds casting stripes of bright and black onto the wood floor. I pawed around in the bottom of Old Yeller past two lipsticks, a brush, a second container of hairspray I forgot I had, a pack of gum, nail file, scissors, and
ta-da
, the flashlight. I twisted it on, the beam picking out the humongous TV, debris left over from the fallen bookcase episode, the vanilla candle, and Suellen from the Pirate House lying faceup, eyes wide open, ponytail askew, not moving a bit, and dead as Robert E. Lee, right there on Simon’s fine leather sofa.