Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) (20 page)
Read Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) Online
Authors: Duffy Brown
KiKi bit into a strip of bacon. “I think we need to get those things in that there bag back to Odilia right quick before anything else happens around here. They’re still out there in my car parked on the street where we left it. I wasn’t about to bring it into this here house.”
Mamma took a sip of coffee. “I’d take the bag, but I have an appointment over at the community college this morning. I’m thinking about taking some classes.”
“You should teach classes there.” I added a lot of enthusiasm to my voice and used the opportunity to steer the conversation away from last night. We’d had enough of last night. “Bet you’d love to teach law. You’d be a fantastic teacher with all your experiences, and you’d have a ton of stories to tell.”
“I think I want to try something else.” Mamma took a forkful of eggs. “Something more creative for a change, something with color. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“As a barrel of monkeys.” I was fighting a losing battle on the creative-class idea and on returning the bag. No one wanted to do that, and I was sure KiKi had a ready excuse tucked away.
“I’ll take the bag back to Odilia before I open the Fox,” I volunteered. “And if I don’t show up by noon, come looking for me.”
“I have a dance lesson with Bernard Thayer at nine,” KiKi said on an exasperated sigh while slathering a biscuit with honey. “And I need to get cleaned up. I used to think Bernard was the bane of my dancing existence till this group of teenagers came into my life. They’ve got him beat by a mile, I can tell you that. See if Odilia has any suggestions as to how to get them to pay attention to me and learn how to dance just a wee bit before the cotillion. They’re going to make me look bad. No one will ever take lessons from me again. Maybe there’s some special music or some incense?”
“Maybe a taser.”
We helped Mamma clean up and get things neat as a pin. Mamma was a neat-pin kind of woman. I studied her and Auntie KiKi and Bruce Willis, a huge wave of thankfulness that we were still here in this kitchen sucking air pouring over me. “We need a group hug,” I blurted.
“Honey,” KiKi said in her best auntie voice. “This isn’t California; we’re Republicans. We’re more a kiss-on-the-forehead-you’ll-be-fine-as-a-fiddle kind of family, then we just move on with life.”
I folded my arms across my too tight green warm-up suit and held my ground.
“Sweet Jesus.” Mamma sighed as we put our arms around each other, BW in the middle. “First we’re singing about hot dogs, and now we’re hugging. I better not be getting a pair of those Birkenstock ugly shoes for my next birthday, or there’ll be hell to pay around here, I can promise you that.”
KiKi pulled into her driveway, and we agreed that home never looked so good. I got out of the car and snagged Odilia’s white bag from the trunk. When I closed the lid, KiKi was staring at me across the back fender, arms crossed, and tapping her foot. The tapping foot meant something was going on.
“You went and did it on purpose, didn’t you?” she said.
“Which purpose are we talking about?”
“The syrupy stuff? The group hug? Odilia’s not going to be happy that Marigold isn’t returning the bag herself. If your ears fall off and teeth fall out, I’ll feel guilty as can be, and I’ve had enough of that with nearly losing BW last night.”
She puffed out a resigned breath. “Give me ten minutes to grab a shower and call Bernard to move his lesson to later and I’ll go with you. If both of us have Lord only knows what befall us, at least we’ll be in it together.”
“You just want to see if Odilia has some potion for your teenagers.”
“There is that.”
I put the bag on the porch, left BW outside in the backyard to do his doggie thing, and did a quick change. I turned on my old Maytag and dropped in the smelly clothes from the fire. I held up my jean jacket wondering what to do.
“You really think you can wash that thing?” KiKi said, pulling up next to me. “It’s held together with a few threads and a prayer now.”
“It survived the explosion and the fire, and I even used it to try and beat out flames at the lumberyard. This jacket has good karma, and karma counts for plenty. Maybe I should just wear it dirty and smelly, Febreze it and hang it in the sun, and take my chances that it’ll be okay.”
“It won’t be okay. It’s smelly and needs soap, lots of soap. What’s this?” KiKi asked pulling a piece of material from the pocket.
“I picked it up at the fire behind the warehouses when looking for BW. There was smoke in my eyes, and I thought it was the tie for the Odilia bag that we left behind, and I didn’t want anything else to happen to it for all our sakes; we had enough problems at the moment.”
“The tie is still on the bag. This is a scarf,” KiKi said, turning it over in her hand. “Silk. It’s expensive, really expensive. Honey Seymour expensive. What was it doing behind the warehouses? It wasn’t there when we did our chanting and drumming, I can tell you that. We would have spotted it.”
“When Honey and Valley arrived at the lumberyard, they drove in the front lot by the office. They stayed there, and then they left. So how did the scarf get to where I picked it up in the back? Money-Honey isn’t the only person in Savannah with expensive clothes,” I said to KiKi.
“But she was the only one at the lumberyard last night.”
“Y
EP,”
Mary Kay said to me and KiKi as we all three studied the cream silk scarf over Danish and espresso from Cakery Bakery that KiKi and I brought along. The dry cleaning machines churned rhythmically in the background, the humid warm air inside the Soap Box reminding me of August in Savannah instead of a chilly November morning.
“I do believe this here is Honey Seymour’s scarf that goes to one of her suits that I’ve done up for her. See?” Mary Kay pointed to the edges. “That ruffled tan piping is the reason I can tell. She’s got a suit just like that. How did you get it?”
“Found it in a parking lot,” I chimed in, then changed the subject away from any more questions to the obvious topic of the day. “Guess you heard about the fire.”
“Heard you two were out there at the lumberyard when it happened,” Mary Kay said around a mouthful of pineapple pastry. “Lordy, what a mess. Least poor old Butler was dead before he got turned into a crispy critter. Guess that’s something to be thankful for.”
“How did you know about Butler?” I asked, the guilt of not finding him riding me hard.
“Detective Ross comes in here right early almost every day to get her suits cleaned. Seems they always have a smear of glaze or powdered sugar. I keep a doughnut or two on hand, kind of gets her in a chatty mood, and I find out what’s what around here. She said Butler was whacked in the back of the head. Best the police can tell he was dragged into the warehouse from someplace else and stashed behind a pile of lumber. If you all hadn’t come along and dialed up 911, the whole place would have been totaled.”
Mary Kay started in on the cherry Danish and glanced down at the white cotton bag by my feet. “Since you’re not dropping off laundry and you’ve got that bag, I’m willing to bet you’re heading off to Odilia’s. I have to say that woman scares the daylights right out of me.”
“Think it would help if I brought her a Danish?” I asked.
“I think it would help if you two dropped that bag on her porch and ran like the devil himself is after you, ’cause he just might be.”
KiKi and I left the Soap Box all casual like then stopped at the corner. “Well I’ll be,” KiKi whispered. “The scarf is you-know-who’s. She and her partner in crime did the deed sure as I’m standing here. We saw them, there was an argument, then we left, and they came back. Scummy was in her way and he’s worm food, and now Butler. It fits together like a big old puzzle.”
“But we have no real proof we can take to Ross,” I said. “She needs something concrete. She knows we don’t have any use for Honey; we could have found the scarf anywhere.” I held up the white bag. “Let’s get rid of this thing. Maybe our luck will change if it’s out of our lives. It sure didn’t do Marigold any good.”
To walk off the Danish we left the Beemer parked at the Soap Box and cut across Oglethorpe. Odilia’s house had no street number; it didn’t need it. It was tucked in an alleyway behind the Sorrel Weed House, one of the most haunted places in Savannah, and just walking by the place gave me the willies. The place was constantly on the market, people thinking ghosts don’t exist then finding out otherwise real quick.
Odilia’s house was a small white frame with quaint blue shutters and porch, a wild variety of plants in the compact front yard, and various fruits and vegetables on the porch.
The fruits and veggies weren’t because Odilia had good eating habits but were offerings to whatever from whomever. As a kid, I thought if you touched an offering, you’d shrivel up and die; as an adult, I was absolutely sure that would happen.
We stepped over the candy and pennies there for prosperity and the apples for good health and healing. I knocked, then knocked again. Shuffling came from inside, and Odilia opened the door. She was wearing a white floral dress, and her head was wrapped in a yellow turban. “You lent this to Marigold,” KiKi said, a little shake in her voice. “And we’re returning it. Her husband was—”
“Murdered,” Odilia said in a gruff tone, her piercing black eyes watching us close. “
Bad to you and bad to me, bad comes back in groups of three
.”
“Amen,” I said out of habit, getting a shin kick from KiKi.
Odilia started to close the door then stopped. “Did Marigold get the insurance policy?”
KiKi and I exchanged glances.
“I told her she’d need it.” Odilia slammed the door, end of discussion.
KiKi stepped off the porch, and I followed. Without saying a word we walked back to Madison Square, sat on a bench, and took a deep breath. “Visiting Odilia isn’t all colored stones and eggplant. There’s financial planning involved, and if followed, it pays off really well.”
“Especially if you have a hand in making it pay off?”
“You really think Marigold would do that?” KiKi asked, both of us having a hard time getting our minds around the possibility.
“Marigold sure wasn’t with us last night, and the woman’s mad and desperate. She knows the lumberyard well enough. We should go talk to her.”
“What are we going to say?” KiKi wanted to know. “Here’s a fruit basket, sorry for your loss, and did you knock off your husband for financial gain?”
I did the double-eyebrow arch, thankful I actually did sort of have eyebrows. “Think about it, she could have knocked off Scummy, too; he was driving Butler nuts. Marigold gave Mamma the bottle of honey bourbon, and then she left for her bridge club soon after Mamma left to talk to Scummy. Scummy was bleeding Butler dry; maybe Marigold had had enough of being broke and got rid of them both.”
“And bought insurance thanks to Odilia, the icing on the cake. Parker’s deli is a few blocks over. Let’s get a fruit basket. That’s perfect condolence food and will get us into Marigold’s.”
“Kind of sneaky.”
“These are sneaky times.”
Fifteen minutes later KiKi and I stood on the porch of the Philbrick-Eastman House. I had the fruit basket, and KiKi raised the pineapple doorknocker to Marigold’s not so humble abode that needed a sprucing up bad. “I don’t know about this,” I said to KiKi. “Mamma’s going to kill us for barging in on Marigold this way; she’s got to be devastated.”
“Your Mamma can’t kill us in someone else’s house. It’s not mannerly. Your mamma’s big on mannerly.”
Mamma yanked open the door on the second knock, took one look, and yanked KiKi inside then came back for me. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I don’t know what to do. Listen. Do you hear that?”
“Crying?” KiKi asked as I handed over the fruit basket. “Poor Marigold. Maybe a pear will help or a kumquat. Maybe we should call the doctor and get her a sedative.”
Mamma poked herself in the chest. “I’m the one who needs a sedative. What you’re hearing is laughter. Marigold’s been online all morning shopping. In two days this place is going to look like Macy’s threw up, and Marigold’s supposed to be in mourning. This is not mourning; this is the Home Shopping Network on steroids. Where’s the decorum, the manners? What will people think?”
“Insurance?” KiKi asked
Mamma gasped. “How did you know? Marigold went and took out a huge policy on Butler just last week. It’s like hitting the jackpot.”
“Unless you’re Butler,” KiKi added, and we all made the sign of the cross.
“Last night Marigold spent the whole evening having drinks and God knows what else with the new owner of the Southern Peach Hotel down by the river. They hit it off, she swears she’s in love, and then she wakes up this morning to no husband and boatloads of money.”
Okay, where was Odilia when I was getting my divorce? Where was my rich guy and hotel owner? I didn’t need an attorney; I needed Odilia. “Marigold was with this guy all night?”
“Half the city saw them making goo-goo eyes at each other at the Southern Peach bar till the sun came up. Shameful if you ask me.”
“I’m not asking you,” Marigold’s voice drifted down from upstairs. “I’m rich. I’m rich, rich, rich!”
Mamma insisted on staying on, and even though it was just nine, KiKi fixed Mamma a double Bloody Mary with a lot more bloody than Mary. I turned the TV to reruns of
I Love Lucy
, then KiKi and I hoofed it back to the Soap Box to retrieve the Beemer. KiKi fired up the engine, and we turned onto Bull then Charlton Street, passing by Money-Honey’s house.
“Stop,” I said to KiKi on a whim. “I think we need to take a look around Money-Honey’s house.”
KiKi eased the Beemer to the curb. “Why sure, let’s just mosey on up to the front door and say we’ve stopped in for a spot of tea, what the heck were you doing at the Haber lumberyard, and by the way isn’t this your scarf we found there?”
“Money-Honey’s not home. Her car’s always parked in the drive ’cause it’s too big for the carriage house. Honey’s still our best suspect for polishing off Seymour outside of Dozer. The maid is probably in. I’ll tell her I’m with Cuisine by Rachelle who did the catering the other night for Honey’s campaign bash, and we forgot a tray and could we look around for it.”
“You think she’ll buy it?”
“It’s a maid; she doesn’t care. I’ll take my time and see if I can get upstairs to look for the suit that matches our scarf. Then we can take the information to Ross.”
“Seems kind of flimsy.”
“Flimsy is all we’ve got right now, and it’s better than nothing. The worst thing that can happen is she recognizes me from the Fox then slams the door in my face.” Before KiKi could think of another excuse or I lost my nerve, I crossed the street to the William Battersby House. I raised the pineapple knocker and out of the corner of my eye spied KiKi heading toward the carriage house. She looked back at me and grinned; I returned the look, shaking my head violently
No
!
“What?” Money-Honey barked when she opened the door.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” popped right of my big mouth.
“I live here. Go away.”
So much for getting upstairs, but the good news was Money-Honey didn’t recognize me with short brown hair and fake brows. “I wanted to tell you . . .” I said to Money-Honey. “Actually I wanted to tell your maid because I know how busy you are that you are an amazing candidate, never seen anyone quite like you on the podium, and with you being an alderman, I’m absolutely sure Savannah will never be quite the same.”
“Why thank you kindly. What did you say your name was?”
“Ann Taylor”
“Ann Taylor, you are so sweet. Now I really must go. My driver will be here any moment.”
“Going on a trip? How nice for you.”
“I have an election to win, dear. I’m not going anywhere till this thing is in the bag. Some idiot backed into my car and busted the taillight out of all things. It’s in the shop. Now I really must go.”
Money-Honey closed the door, and I crept around back by the carriage house, looking for Savannah’s version of Nancy Drew. I ducked behind an azalea bush and a line of oleander bushes and a bed of withering impatiens, begonias, and foxgloves all in neat rows except for one open empty space. An obvious empty space because there was a hole in the ground. I stopped dead, staring at the dirt. Someone had been digging in the garden, digging foxglove plants. Not digging with a big shovel but a small hand shovel at just one plant.
“Pssst,” sounded from the Beemer, KiKi already there making hand gestures for me to get a move on, and she was right. If Money-Honey’s ride came along and she came out and saw me poking around her house, there’d be another encounter with the cops. I backed out of the garden and took shotgun in the Batmobile.
“What happened to Honey not being home?” KiKi fired up the engine, and we continued on down Charlton.
“Her car’s in the shop. Things didn’t exactly go as I planned. Did you find anything?”
“There were gas cans in the carriage house, but everyone has gas cans with lawn equipment. The maintenance people probably keep it on hand. Honey, and my guess is Valley too, are guilty as a priest in a whorehouse, and we both know it, and we can’t prove a darn thing.”
It was after ten when I opened the Fox, two frustrated customers waiting on the porch. I offered the 20-percent-discount apology, and all was well, but I hated starting off the workday late.
I wrote up a sale for a blue wool skirt and two pairs of jeans as a cruiser pulled to the curb, Detective Ross rolling up the sidewalk. How could anyone get so big in one week? I sucked in my gut and swore to start jogging . . . tomorrow. Yes, definitely maybe tomorrow.
