Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) (18 page)

“I
’M
not so sure Marigold knows how to drum,” Mamma said from the front seat of the Beemer as Auntie KiKi drove out Old River Road. BW and I occupied the backseat, the white cotton bag between us. With the threat of mayhem in the air I wasn’t about to leave BW behind. Uncle Putter was spending the night in Beaufort to take part in a charity golf outing, so he was out of harm’s way, and KiKi considered bringing Precious/Hellion, but I convinced her the cat would be fine. In truth, no one with an ounce of sense would get near that ornery critter.

“If I remember correctly,” Mamma went on with the sun hovering right at the edge of the Savannah River making it all shimmery, “Marigold flunked band back in high school. In desperation and because her daddy donated the uniforms, they finally gave her that little triangle thing to ding at the appropriate time. But I have to say no one strutted her stuff better than Marigold, and I think that had a lot to do with why Butler Haber went and married her.”

“Musical talent probably isn’t as important as the four of us making enough racket at sunset that the powers that be will take notice,” I said. “Or maybe they’ll all just have a good laugh and turn Marigold’s luck around for her.”

KiKi slowed at the next turn and pulled into the far edge of a gravel parking lot beside the weathered red and white Haber Lumber LLC sign. Red-roofed open-air buildings stood in a row with lumber stacked inside along with forklifts tucked away for the night. The last two buildings nearest to us had tracks that brought the logs to the behemoth saws for cutting. Long trucks for hauling were parked behind; Butler’s aging Buick and a beat-up Ford pickup were parked by the A-frame house on the other side of the lot that probably served as the office; there were lights on inside. A chain-link fence surrounded the premises, the gates wide open and no sign of another Killer the dog.

“I don’t see Marigold’s blue Civic,” KiKi said.

“I tried to call to tell her we had Odilia’s bag out here with us,” Mamma added. “But I didn’t get an answer. Maybe we should drive around back of the warehouses to the river. She could be there. A setting sun over the water sounds like a good place to do whatever we’re doing. And we best do it right fast or the sun’s going to be beyond setting.”

Wheels crunched over stones as the Beemer slowly circled the warehouses and trucks to keep out of sight. We didn’t need Butler in on the action to be sure. KiKi killed the engine, and we piled out of the car, staring across the calm and serene river now reflecting golds, grays, and blues of sunset.

“Well, Marigold’s not down here either,” Mamma said. “But I’m thinking we can go ahead and do this Odilia thing for Marigold on our own. How hard can it be? She’s been a good friend for a lot of years. We’re here anyway, why not? Hand me that there drum. KiKi, you man the gourd, and Reagan can walk BW; we’ll have a nice little procession going, probably have more of an impact than just one person anyway. I think we should chant something. Spiritual rituals are always accompanied by a nice chant.”

KiKi folded her arms and tilted her head. “Now I ask you, do we look like or have we ever sounded like a contingent of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir?”

“Fine,” Mamma huffed. “Then we’ll do a song, a little old tune we all know, and hurry up and think of something; the sun is dropping like a rock.”

“‘I Got You Babe,’” KiKi volunteered. “That’s Cher’s favorite and mine. I always sing it to Putter when he has a bad golf game. He thinks I’m cute.”

“What about Johnny Cash’s ‘Folsom Prison Blues’?” Mamma said. “I consider it my theme song; I hum it on the way to work sometimes. Sort of sets the mood for the day.”

“What about ‘Happy Birthday’?” That got me the y
ou’ve got to be kidding
look. “‘Jingle Bells’?”

Mamma sighed.

“The Oscar Meyer Wiener song,” I announced in triumph. “Everybody knows the Oscar Meyer Wiener song. Even BW can bark along. It brings down the house at Wet Willies every Friday night.”

“Sweet Jesus, we’re going to beseech the wisdom and graces of the spirits on high with a song about extruded processed meat? It’ll be a miracle if this place doesn’t burn down around us.”

Mamma faced KiKi, her eyes narrow and menacing. “One word of this on that Facebook page of yours or one little old tweet and I’ll hunt you down, sister dear.”

Mamma followed KiKi. BW and I brought up the rear, all of us making noise, BW doing the doggie howl. Calling it singing was a real stretch, and I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been so darn glad to be out in the middle of freaking nowhere with no one around to witness the spectacle. We kept going till the sun dropped behind the horizon, casting the earth and water in shades of deep gray.

Mamma zipped up her jacket. “What do you think?” she asked the three of us huddled together as she put the drum and rattle back in the bag and fastened it with the cloth.

“I think I need a double martini, three olives,” KiKi said. “And maybe a little girl’s room.”

“Now? Here?” Mamma passed her hand over her eyes.

“I can’t help it,” KiKi huffed. “All that singing and carrying on like we did got things stirred up. It’s the way of the world.”

I pointed to the edge of the river, the crescent moon peeking out from behind the clouds. “You’ll have to use the bushes.” We all rummaged around in our purses for tissues and hand sanitizer.

“It’s getting dark, and it’s cold as a well digger’s behind out here,” Mamma said, heading to the car. “Hurry it up, will you?”

“You think I don’t know it’s cold,” KiKi grumped as she stomped off for the riverbank. “And it’s not just the well digger’s behind that’s going to be cold.”

Another car pulled into the front lot, tires spitting gravel, headlights cutting a swath across the buildings.

“Is that Marigold finally getting herself here?” KiKi asked. “She’s a little late to be any use. What is that girl thinking?”

“Will you just take care of business so we can all be on our merry way,” Mamma hissed, shooing KiKi off like a pesky fly.

“It’s a Lexus,” I said, keeping my voice low and watching through the open building. “It’s Money-Honey’s; I recognize the iridescent white paint job. What in the world is she doing out here at Haber’s Lumber at this time of night?”

“It’s just six thirty,” Mamma said. “She’s probably buying lumber for Seymour construction. She is taking over the business, after all.”

“Maybe,” I said, but doubted that was the issue. More like something to do with the Haber Lumber/Seymour Construction debacle if Money-Honey felt she had to be here in person. Butler opened the office door, his silhouette and another guy’s backlit by the lights inside. Valley got out of the passenger side of the Lexus, and Butler came his way. This was so not about buying lumber for the construction company.

“I’m going to see if I can get close enough to hear what they’re saying. You stay with KiKi.” I put down the white bag and handed BW’s leash to Mamma. I did the finger-across-the-lips
shhh
thing, ignored her shaking her head in fierce disagreement, and crept off toward warehouse number one.

The scent of fresh-cut wood hung heavy in the air, sawdust covered the ground, towers of lumber loomed high on either side. The world hovered between pearl gray and night black. I got close enough to see what was going on but couldn’t hear what Butler and Money-Honey said; both were ticked as can be. Butler yelled something at Valley about wood, Valley yelled something back, then Butler punched him, knocking him down, and the other guy in the office pulled up beside Butler looking defensive. My guess was he was an employee as he and Butler had on the same yellow polo shirts.

Money-Honey and Valley got back in her Lexus, tearing out of the lot spewing gravel at Butler, and Butler hurled a fistful of rocks at the retreating Lexus. He and his friend turned, and Butler stormed back inside, slamming the door behind them, the sound echoing into the stillness.

“Good heavens, what was that all about?” KiKi asked when I climbed in the car beside BW.

“I couldn’t hear,” I said, fastening my seatbelt. “But there’s obviously something going on. There’s a lot of hostility between Honey and Butler, and now Valley’s involved because of the election.”

“Why are they so upset with each other nowadays?” Mamma wanted to know. “They all grew up together and used to be friends, being they were in the same sort of business.” KiKi used just the low beam parking lights to maneuver through the lumberyard and edge her way around the trucks and not draw attention. Only Butler’s car sat in the lot now.

“Butler Haber was selling poor quality wood to Seymour Construction,” I told Mamma, praying she wouldn’t ask how I knew such things. When we got on the highway, KiKi turned on her headlights and hit the gas.

“Now Seymour Construction buildings are falling down; it’s been in all the papers,” I continued. “My guess is Money-Honey is blackmailing Butler or she’ll spill the beans that he sold the wood, and Butler’s threatening to say that Seymour knew about the poor quality lumber all along and was out to make a buck.”

“And it doesn’t even matter if it’s true or not,” Mamma said, the Batmobile powering us silently through the night. “Any hint of something not quite right will kill Honey’s chances at election and her business, just like getting accused of murder ruined my chances. That’s certainly a stroke of bad luck for Honey, especially if it’s not true.”

I settled into the cushy comfort of expensive leather and personal temperature control as Mamma asked Auntie KiKi if she had heard about Cousin Samuel’s gallbladder surgery. When KiKi said he wanted to have the thing preserved in formaldehyde and kept in the pantry so he could be buried with all his body parts when the time came, I figured I’d had my fill of crazy for one day and let the conversation wash over me. My eyes started to close, BW’s head snuggled in my lap, and a little voice in my brain yelled,
wake up, stupid!

But I didn’t want to wake up. I was tired to the bone and wanted to sleep, and I to let myself drift off and . . .

I bolted upright. I frantically searched the backseat. “Where’s the white bag?” I asked KiKi and Mamma, and if BW answered, that would be okay, too. “Did either of you put Odilia’s white bag in the trunk? I set it down when I went after Money-Honey and Butler.”

Mamma and KiKi exchanged wide-eyed looks.

“We’ve got to go back,” I said. “Hopefully Butler is still there and hasn’t locked the fence for the night. If we lose that bag . . .” I didn’t have to finish the sentence, all of us thinking of Buffy Codetta’s mother-in-law.

KiKi jerked the wheel and made a U-turn right in the middle of the road, tires squealing, BW sliding into my lap. KiKi floored the Beemer, all the bunches of horsepower sitting under the hood coming to life at once with enough G-force to send us back to the future.

The Beemer purred along at breakneck speed, taking bends with the greatest of ease. KiKi passed a pickup, then an eighteen-wheeler like they were standing still. We took the next turn, then the next; there was a glow of yellow and orange up ahead . . . oh Lord, right up ahead . . . fire arching high into the dark sky behind the Haber Lumber LLC sign.

KiKi tore into the gravel parking lot, coming to a skidding stop. Frozen in terror the four of us stared at the scene in front of us.

“Holy Lord above, how did this happen?” Mamma grabbed her cell and punched in 911, and KiKi and I scrambled out of the Beemer. I closed BW safely inside, the intense heat taking my breath away.

The fire roared angry and mean from the sides and end of the first warehouse. The only thing not ablaze there was the metal roof. Mamma pulled up beside me, the three of us horrified as flames trailed across the ground following the path of sawdust like a hound on the scent, the second warehouse suddenly igniting like a match tossed on gasoline.

“Ohmygod!” KiKi shrieked, the three of us taking a step back.

“Butler?” My eyes cut to his old Buick parked in the same place by the A-frame, lights still on inside and the door wide open. “I don’t see him. He’s probably trying to put the fire out. He might be hurt or trapped,” I said to Mamma and KiKi. “Stay here and don’t move.”

I took off before parental protectiveness became an issue, then glanced back to see Mamma and KiKi heading for the far warehouse. I stopped in my tracks. What in the world were they doing? Going for the bag of course!

“No!” I yelled after the dynamic duo, fearing for their lives. Neither paid one bit of attention. Did parents ever listen to their kids? Then again did kids ever listen to their parents?