Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) (16 page)
Read Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) Online
Authors: Duffy Brown
I gave BW his daily hot dog then changed into black slacks, a white blouse, and my glued shoes. I could probably afford better ones that came in on consignment, but these were comfortable; with a stand-up job, comfort trumped glue.
I hurried off to Charlton Street, Money-Honey’s humble abode being the William Battersby House, an incredible Greek Revival with lovely gardens built way before the days of AC. The house had long verandas stretching south to north catching the ocean breezes drifting in from Tybee Island. A white van with
Cuisine by Rachelle
scripted across the sides stood by the back entrance, doors flung wide open.
“Lord be praised, you made it,” Chantilly said, thrusting a tray of cucumber sandwiches my way and hoisting up a huge bowl of Vidalia onion salad. “Rachelle’s putting the crawdad stew into the chafing dishes, and I’ll finish up the shrimp and grits, then cut servings of Granny Jackie’s peach cobbler and put them on the buffet. It got rave reviews from the Daughters of the Confederacy at their last luncheon. Wait till you see this dining room,” Chantilly added as we headed inside. “Chandelier from Italy and silk oriental rugs and—”
“Wait,” I said getting in front of her. “Rachelle served at the Daughter’s luncheon out at Sweet Marsh?”
“The country club said they’d try her out to do their desserts; their pastry chef up and left, so now we’re getting business from them. I make a mean lemon meringue pie. The gig was great for Rachelle’s business and—”
“That was the day and time Scummy got knocked off. If Rachelle was out at Sweet Marsh serving the Daughters, she wasn’t lacing Scummy’s honey bourbon.”
Chantilly bit her bottom lip. “I never thought of that. So Rachelle’s off the hook, and I got myself a job permanent. I was mighty worried she’d be getting hauled off to jail. Seymour was definitely not one of her favorite people, and doing him in was not out of the realm of possibility. Anyone who can whip meringues the way that woman does has definite hostile tendencies.”
A slow grin spread across Chantilly’s face. “This is mighty wonderful news, I have to tell you. My Pillsbury will be tickled pink all the way to his toes that I’m still a cook.”
A mental image of Pillsbury tickled pink boggled the mind, but right now we had work to do. Chantilly used her behind to hold the door for me, and I scooted past and into the kitchen. “Drop this off, then set out boiled peanuts and pralines,” she said. “We need to look real Southern, and then go set out the glasses for champagne. The servers will pass the drinks, and you can help us keep bowls and platters filled. Well-fed, inebriated guests write fatter campaign checks.” She gave me a critical once-over. “Just stay out of view. We don’t need any Gloria Summerside drama.”
A parade of delivery people carried in vases and baskets of fall flowers, and the valet guys set up a key system so guests didn’t have to hunt for parking places. I found the wood-paneled parlor, a fire crackling in the hearth, the bar ready for action. I pulled rented fluted glasses from boxes, set them on the silver trays, then started opening bottles chilling in tubs of ice. My first attempt at champagne popping took out an ugly ceramic bird on the mantel, the second cork nailed a painting of something modern so the dent blended in, but by the third bottle I was a pro.
“That campaign manager just called,” Chantilly said in a rush, her hair frizzed out as if she had just stepped off a rollercoaster. “They’re running a few minutes late; seems there was some kind of problem at the rally, two men causing a scene. They had to call the cops, and no one wanted to leave and miss the action and how are we to keep everything warm and it not get dried out. Mercy!”
Chantilly shoved a little cordless vacuum my way. “Walk around and make sure everything looks good. If things aren’t perfect, Honey won’t pay us.”
I didn’t know who the men at the park were, but thank you very much, this was just the break I needed. Chantilly hurried off to check the dining room, and I sucked up stray leaves and dirt that had been tracked in along with peanut shells that had missed the bowls. I worked my way toward the curved staircase, the second floor being the best bet for unearthing incriminating evidence that indicated Money-Honey’s campaign was planned and much more than a sudden whim.
I scooted a maroon and gold upholstered chair away from the wall to hide the vacuum till I got back downstairs, except a reed basket was already there. It held colorful pink lacy ribbons tied around a chunk of wood, two eggplants, and a bottle of white rum. Marigold and round two with Odilia? Pink lacy ribbon and all. Knowing better than to ever come between a basket of offerings and the powers that be, I scooted the chair back in place and hid the vacuum behind a curtain.
Three guest bedrooms occupied one side of the upstairs hall, the master on the other side. A cherry antique desk sat in the corner, a Tiffany lamp casting shades of greens and gold across the white carpet. I pulled out the top drawer of the desk to find legal pads and what looked like Honey’s campaign speech on how Scummy should be here tonight at this rally with you all and how he was taken from us by a desperate, no-account, scheming, unscrupulous woman with no sense of decency.
Wow, good thing I talked KiKi out of going to that rally. She would have had a hissy fit right there on the podium when she heard these things about Mamma, and I would have been right behind her.
The clothes in Honey’s closet were Chanel, Saint John’s, Hermes, and other high-price names, everything in perfect I-have-a-maid order. Jackets hung on one side, skirts on the other, then blouses and suits, with shoes in see-through marked plastic boxes. I stopped and went back to the jackets, to the cream one with black stitching. It was the jacket Honey wore when she and Scummy harassed Mamma the day he died. The matching skirt to the suit was the very one the woman had brought to the Fox to sell. The woman was Honey’s maid, and the cream skirt with the spots belonged to Honey. But why did Honey throw away the matching skirt?
A series of car doors slammed outside, guests arriving, valet taking over. I did a quick rummage through the dressers, then the nightstands with floral lamps perched on top. One nightstand had reading glasses, a copy of
Winning Elections for Dummies
, and a king-size bottle of aspirin. The other nightstand was empty, obviously Scummy’s, and everything of his gone. This was not the house of a distraught mourning widow who had difficulty moving on. Money-Honey had left Scummy in the dust three days ago when she buried his sorry behind out there at Bonaventure.
Creaking came from the hallway, high heels clicking across the hardwood floor. I hunkered down beside the bed and scooted under, expensive shoes coming my way. That I hated little closed-in, cramped-tight places where there wasn’t enough oxygen and the whole place could collapse in on me at any time did not add to the joy of my current situation.
Breathe
I ordered myself, perspiration slithering down the sides of my face.
Think of a happy place
. A scream inched up my throat.
Honey sat at the edge of the bed, the backs of her shoes inches from my face. She clicked on the nightstand lamp then kicked off her beige heels, nearly hitting me in the face with the spiked end. Her purse tumbled off the bed onto the floor right in front of me, a pen, comb, and a no-lid prescription bottle of digoxin for Kip Seymour right in front of my nose. Money-Honey muttered something very unladylike, scooped up the things, then padded over to the bathroom. The door closed behind her, and I shimmied from under the bed. I gulped in massive amounts of oxygen, my gaze landing on the no-lid prescription bottle Honey had sat on the nightstand.
It was Scummy’s all right. Why would Honey have Scummy’s prescription bottle when she didn’t even have a tie or sock or shirt of his lying around? A little yellow pill lay on the carpet by the nightstand, probably a straggler from the bottle. It was just like the yellow pills in Scummy’s desk at the headquarters with writing on the top, numbers and letters. Prescription. I hadn’t paid attention in the dim light at the headquarters, but here in the bright light of the lamp it was obvious these weren’t aspirin. I slipped the pill in my pocket and crept out into the hall. It was too crowded to get the vacuum so I headed straight for the kitchen.
Chantilly flung a plate of something puffed at me. “Where have you been? Put these in the dining room right away. They’re all a bunch of vultures out there. You’d think they hadn’t eaten in a month, and they’re gobbling up everything in sight. Keep your head down and no one will pay any attention to who you are, and they won’t even care as long as you’re bringing them food. Go!”
The rest of the night was a blur of shrimp things, crab things, puffed this and that, and various chunks of meat on little wood skewers. Personally I preferred SpaghettiOs surprise on the front porch with BW. Lord knows the company was better. By midnight the food was eaten, the moochers gone, and campaign checks written.
Money-Honey stood in the kitchen doorway, probably as close to a kitchen as the woman ever got since she found money. “You,” she said, pointing a bony finger at Rachelle and holding out a cream-colored skirt in her other hand. “Put club soda on this right away. Some moron dribbled whiskey, and the cleaners will have a dickens of a time even if I tell them what it is. I’ve already lost one Chanel suit to whiskey, and I’m not losing another. These skirts don’t grow on trees; they’re expensive. I’m going to bed and this place better be spic-and-span in the morning or I’m not paying a dime.”
Rachelle waited till Money-Honey left and folded her arms. “First we had Mr. Jackass and now Mrs. Jackass. Neither one worth a hoot if you ask me; I think that there Archie Lee guy is the best of the lot.”
“I can take care of the skirt for you,” I said to Rachelle, snatching it from her hand and hurrying off to the parlor and the bar for club soda. The stains on the skirt were little brown dribbles, and I’d seen them before on the Chanel skirt the maid brought into the Fox to sell. Whiskey stains? Honey just said so herself. I wouldn’t have connected the two if Money-Honey hadn’t just mentioned it.
The thing was, she didn’t try and save the skirt the maid had brought in. The maid said she found it in the trash. Why didn’t Honey take it to the cleaners? And what was with Scummy’s empty prescription bottle in her purse without a lid, the scattered pills in Scummy’s desk drawer, and the complete absence of Scummy at home and at the headquarters?
Scummy was dead, Mamma framed for the murder, and no one happier about it all than Money-Honey Seymour. How did she make this happen and why?
“L
OOK,
dog,” I said to BW as he licked my face at seven thirty in the morning, “I didn’t get to bed till two
A.M.
That’s not much sleep even in dog time, and I need to teach you how to use a toothbrush and mouthwash.”
In reply BW sat on my chest, flattening out what little attributes I had and making it impossible to go back to sleep. I scooted out from under seventy pounds of loving doggie, stumbled downstairs, and opened the door for BW, then stopped. I wasn’t alone . . . again. Slowly I turned around to Mamma, Auntie KiKi, and Boone sitting at my dining room table with a big plate of sprinkle doughnuts.
“Holy mother of God, who died?”
“Oh, honey,” Mamma said, getting up and patting me on the back. “No one died. My, what a nice Tweety Bird nightshirt you have on.”
“It’s from the Goodwill over on Broughton and has a chocolate stain down the front, and why are Boone and both of you here in my house at this hour?” I sucked in a quick breath and looked at Mamma. “They’re going to put you back in jail?”
“I’m protection,” Boone offered, picking up a doughnut.
“From the cops?”
“From you.” Boone handed me a cup of coffee. “Drink this, all of it; you’re going to need it.” He took a big bite of doughnut to hide the smile pulling at his lips. It wasn’t a gee-isn’t-this-a-nice-day kind of smile but more of a
You are so screwed
smile.
“It wasn’t our fault at all,” KiKi said matter-of-factly. “Anyone would have done the very same thing in our shoes. You would have done the same thing. We were provoked. It was that Money-Honey person and all those lies that made us do it.”
“I needed to set the record straight,” Mamma chimed in. “So we did, both of us together. We just couldn’t sit still and do nothing, now could we? How would I ever get a fair trial in this town or get a decent table over there at the Pink House if I just let things slide?”
“What things slide? Where?” My brain started to churn. What was that Chantilly had said last night about a disturbance? The police being called in? “Holy crap, you both went to that rally!”
“We went right up to that podium they had set up to tell the truth to everyone who was there,” KiKi said, chin held high. “How dare that woman accuse Gloria of murder right out there in a public place? But then some know-it-all called the police before Gloria could make a statement.”
“I remembered the alleys that we ducked down to keep away from the press, then we got to Walker’s house and sort of hid out till the cops went away. He drove us home but said we needed to tell you everything before you found out on your own, that you might be a bit upset. He brought you doughnuts, isn’t that right nice of him? But I don’t see how you can be upset, honey. We didn’t take any chances at being recognized; we wore disguises, good ones.”
Auntie KiKi held up a fedora and a leather jacket. “We were so badass.”
Boone handed me a doughnut. “Sort of like drag in reverse.”
“I don’t believe this.”
Auntie KiKi folded her arms. “We needed evidence to get Gloria off the hook, and we knew the killer would be there. Archie Lee was having a rally over on Liberty Square, and we intended to head over there next. We wanted to have a look-see for ourselves as to who was acting suspicious.”
“
You
were acting suspicious by being there! You . . . you . . . you’re both grounded! For a week! Go to your rooms!”
“Honey,” Mamma started, a spark of amusement in her eyes. “You can’t—”
“Watch me.” I gave KiKi my best
ready to throw a fit
look and pointed to her house. “If I see you out of Rose Gate, I’m telling Uncle Putter exactly who dumped the plant on Scummy’s head over there at Eternal Slumber and just how he wound up with the cat from hell living in his house.”
I glared at Mamma. “If you leave your place, I’m moving back in, bringing BW, and contaminating your fridge with hot dogs. I’ll let BW sleep on the bed, and I’m making SpaghettiOs surprise for dinner every night.”
Mamma’s jaw dropped, and KiKi’s eyes bugged. I jabbed my hands to my hips. “Now both of you go . . . but leave the doughnuts.”
Mamma snatched up her purse. “But—”
“Hot dogs? SpaghettiOs surprise?”
“I was just going to say you might want to fetch a robe, dear. You got yourself all in a tizzy and are showing off some things best left to the male imagination, if you get my drift.” Mamma nodded at my front, two little points protruding under Tweety’s big black eyes. Mamma followed KiKi out the door, BW scampered back inside, and I grabbed a navy jacket from the rack, Boone averting his gaze.
A part of me commended his gentlemanliness, another part thinking
Hey, what’s wrong with the girls
? A little on the skimpy side but a ten on the perky scale.
“You grounded badass one and two, got eyebrows, and fixed your hair. What’s this city going to do for entertainment now?” Boone said, dragging me back to the situation.
I took a big gulp of coffee. “How did the police not know it was Mamma and KiKi at the rally?”
“Ross was over at Cakery Bakery loading up on fats and sugars for the night and took the call. She said it was hard to give chase when doubled over with laughter. I told her we were onto something and would let her in on it if she conveniently got lost and couldn’t identify her two suspects.” Boone leaned back in the chair. “
Are
you onto something? I gave sanctuary to fugitives; it’s your turn.”
“It’s always my turn. There was a basket of eggplant, ribbons, and rum over at the Seymour house hidden behind a chair. Last time I talked to Marigold, Odilia had her dropping offerings at Seymour’s business; my guess is this is the second round since Honey’s taking over the business.” Savannah was one of the few places on the face of the earth where you could make a statement like that and it would make perfect sense.
“Butler and Marigold Haber had no use for Scummy and felt pretty much the same about his wife. I think there’s bad blood there, and the decorated basket proves things have not improved.”
“Ross needs more than eggplant, ribbons, and rum,” Boone said. “And what in heaven’s name were you doing at Honey Seymour’s? Being Gloria Summerside’s daughter puts you on Honey’s hit list big-time.”
“I was helping Chantilly with a catering gig. With my brown hair Chantilly said no one would recognize me. Besides she promised me free lunch for a week.”
“And it gave you a chance to case the joint. Find anything?”
“Champagne corks are lethal.” I took a sip of coffee, the gift of caffeine jumpstarting my brain. “Doesn’t it seem a little strange to you that Honey Seymour is so ready, willing, and able to take her husband’s place? I know everyone thinks it’s because she’s overwrought after Scummy’s death and honoring his memory, but in her house there’s no sign the guy ever existed. Takes moving on to a whole new level.”
“And you think she did him in because he was messing with the help and she got fed up. She knew he was going to lose the election, so she took matters into her own hands and got rid of him.”
“You knew about all this?”
“Like I said, I did some legal work for Kip a few years back. He was fooling around then, and I can’t imagine that marrying Honey would change him. Honey and everyone else in the city tuned into social media knew Gloria was coming to the campaign headquarters with the honey bourbon to try and smooth things over. It was easy for Honey to spike it and frame Gloria, or maybe Delray Valentine did the deed.”
Boone thought for second. “My guess is they were both in on it. They were in and out of that office, and they both had a lot to lose if the election went south. It sure as heck is easier to substitute the grieving widow who suffered through a cheating husband than defend the rotten, no-good cheating husband. But there’s no proof that I can find that ties Honey and Valley to killing Seymour. Even ordering Honey’s campaign paraphernalia was done after Seymour died.”
I sat up straight. “You broke into his headquarters to check the invoice, too?”
“I checked with Francie over at Spanish Moss Printers for the order dates.” Boone shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “What else do you have for Ross. We got to get something to her quick. She’s keeping Cakery Bakery on double shifts and should be the size of a house by Thanksgiving at this rate.”
“There were digoxin pills lying loose in Scummy’s desk at his campaign headquarters and an empty prescription bottle for the pills in Honey’s purse with no lid. Why the pills one place, the bottle another, and the lid somewhere else? Like someone was in a hurry to clean up?”
“What else?”
“I landed in a garbage can and hid under a bed to get that information, so show a little appreciation, and how do you know there’s an
else
?”
“Your fake brows are squished together in one long shaggy line. Either you’re thinking, or you’re coming down with some disease.”
“There’s this skirt. One of Honey’s maids brought it to me to sell at the Fox, but it has spots on it, and I can’t sell it this way. The thing is it was the skirt to the suit Honey wore the day Seymour was knocked off. I recognized it because Honey and Scummy came to Mamma’s headquarters to harass her that day, too. Honey kept the jacket; I saw it in her closet when I was there.”
Boone let out a long weary sigh, but I ignored it and went on. “Here’s the thing, Honey didn’t send the skirt to the cleaners to try and save it. She just tossed it in the garbage like a rag.”
Boone hunched his shoulders. “It’s just a skirt, and Honey has money. So she threw out a skirt, no big deal. She gets rid of a lot of things.”
“Let me tell you about the rich. The reason they have money is because they hold on to it. This is a five-hundred-dollar skirt, maybe more. I think the stains were whiskey stains because Honey admitted she’d ruined two skirts that way, and the spots on the first skirt were dead-on to the ones on the second. The second skirt was going to the cleaners.” I held out my hands. “Why didn’t she take the first one? What was different about it? Why throw out a Chanel skirt?”
Boone stared straight ahead, gazing off into nothingness, lips thin, jaw set, little gray cells churning behind dark eyes. “Or what’s the difference between the whiskey stains on the first skirt and the whiskey stains on the second?” Boone offered. “If Honey did spike the bourbon that killed Kip and she spilled some of the liquor, she’d want to get rid of the skirt and any trace of what was on it that could be linked back to her. Best to just toss it out.”
“Except the maid came along and saw dollar signs.”
“Okay, we got Kip playing bedroom bingo, and Honey and Valley seeing their work going up in smoke and then turning it all around with a sympathetic candidate who’s man did her wrong. Framing Gloria gets her out of the way, and Archie Lee’s not going to win against Honey. Ross should take a look at those spots. The police can analyze material and residue. Where’s this skirt the maid brought to sell?”
“It’s expensive.”
“Right, got the memo.”
“So I sort of took it to the dry cleaners to get the spots out.”
