Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) (8 page)
Read Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) Online
Authors: Duffy Brown
Dozer laughed deep in his barrel chest, pulling me closer still. I eased out from under the crushing weight of Dozer’s arm and came face to chest with a white T-shirt splashed with red barbecue sauce. My eyes traveled up to shoulders—the guy didn’t have a neck—and I recognized the face.
“Get out of here,” Popeye bellowed at me, the bar getting instantly quite.
“Hey, buddy,” Dozer cajoled, looking at Popeye. “Don’t you be talking that way to my friend here.” Dozer snagged my arm and yanked me back to his side. “She’s a cute little addition to the place, don’t you think?”
“This here ain’t no friend,” Popeye sneered. “This here is trouble, Summerside trouble, the worst kind. You don’t want nothing to do with her, man.” Popeye hoisted me up by my other arm, Dozer not letting go of my neck. I couldn’t breathe, the room swimming in front of me. I swore if I ever found the real killer, I’d strangle him or her with my own two hands.
I dropped my beer and shoved at Dozer, gulping in mouthfuls of air. Popeye didn’t give a hoot about my near-death experience and hauled me toward the back hall and the rear door I was getting to know all too well.
“Getting tossed out of here once wasn’t enough for you?” Popeye shoved me into the alley again. I stumbled, tripped, and landed on my backside, jarring every bone in my body.
“Is this any way to treat a lady?”
“Ladies don’t come around here accusing my brother of murder.”
“For your information I was here tonight to accuse someone else of murder.”
“Dozer?”
“Maybe.” Open mouth, insert foot.
“I’ll be sure to let him know.” Popeye slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame, the party inside picking up where it left off. So much for me being inconspicuous.
“Honey, are you all right down there?” A woman gazed at me, the alley light catching in her gray hair. She juggled two big white boxes with
Cuisine by Rachelle
stenciled in blue on the sides. One of the boxes started to slip, and I caught it before it hit the ground.
“Why thank you kindly for that.” She nodded at the boxes. “I’m the Rachelle on this here box, Rachelle Lerner, and I’d hate to walk inside with a banged-up delivery. Archie Lee’s a good customer, and I aim to keep him happy as best I can. I need the business.” She cut her eyes to the door. “Guess you two don’t get along so well?”
“I criticized his boiled peanuts.” I got to my feet and helped Rachelle adjust the boxes.
“He’s mighty proud of those peanuts. Concocted the recipe himself from what I hear. He’s serving up shrimp po’boys tonight with special sauce in honor of being the new alderman. I got the buns right here and two more boxes waiting out in the van. He sure is tickled about winning this here election.”
“Do you need some help?”
“I can manage on my own. Been doing a lot of managing these days. Used to be my Parnell made the deliveries for me. ’Course that was before a no-good, rotten judge sent my baby boy to prison. So he sold a few drugs; everyone’s on something these days. I hope that Summerside judge rots in prison herself now, I truly do.” Rachelle drew up close. “She’s the one they’re accusing of knocking off Seymour.”
“No,” I said on a gasp. The gasp was because I realized the woman was the same one who had stood beside me at Eternal Slumber, happy as a clam Scummy was history.
“Yes indeed, and it’s just what that woman deserves if you ask me. Someone sure fixed her little old red wagon, now didn’t they?”
Fixed her wagon? “You don’t think the judge really killed Seymour?”
Rachelle gave a who-cares shrug. “She’s getting accused of it, and that’s what matters. Fact is, a lot of folks didn’t like Kip Seymour, and I’m right at the top of that list. Now if you could hold that there door open for me, I’d be mighty grateful for the assistance.”
Rachelle wobbled inside with the teetering boxes, and I headed for home, the long walk giving me a chance to pick up a to-go meatloaf sandwich with extra provolone from Parker’s deli and gas station, and time to think about the evening. I licked a glob of cheese from my thumb and decided Rachelle had a bad case of what Mamma often referred to as the Baby Jesus syndrome, meaning
my child can do no wrong
.
But was Rachelle just plain old mad at Mamma for sending her darling Parnell off to jail, or was she mad enough to do something sinister about it, like frame Mamma for murder? Why knock off Scummy in the process? What was her gripe with him? She said there was a list of people wanting Scummy dead and she was on it.
What did Dozer mean by Scummy wheeling and dealing? What was he into? By the time I got to Cherry House, I was full and frustrated. I had a lot more questions than answers, and my night of keeping on the down-low hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. I fed BW a chunk of meatloaf sandwich and the last hot dog in the fridge. I promised him I’d go to the store on the morrow for a hot dog refill if he’d stop with the
poor pitiful neglected pup
look. I let him outside for a nightly round of sniff-and-sprinkle, and Auntie KiKi waltzed her way across the grass, martini glass in hand.
“Heard you had quite a time over there at the Cemetery and figured you might need this.”
“Twitter?”
“And Facebook. The pictures are suitable for framing. Cher says, ‘Until you’re ready to look foolish, you’ll never have the possibility of being great.’ Honey, after tonight I think you’re gearing up for the presidency.”
We both sat down on the porch, and I took a sip of martini. The cool sliding down my throat and alcohol buzzing in my bloodstream took some of the sting out of the fact that in one single night my not-so-great sleuthing skills made top billing on two social networks. “Did Uncle Putter suspect you were part of the Eternal Slumber fiasco?”
“The seniors had a pepperoni-pizza-and-cheesy-breadstick delivery from Vinnie Van GoGo’s right there in the middle of his healthy heart talk. He was so spitting mad when he got home that nothing else mattered.”
“God bless Vinnie, double cheese, and speedy delivery.” We both made the sign of the cross and then KiKi dropped a pink sparkly pin in my lap.
“Holy cow, you got it? I forgot all about this being tucked under Scummy’s shoulder.”
KiKi fluffed her hair and flashed a superior auntie smile. “I’m not only smart and mighty good-looking; I’m sneaky as all get out, too.”
I picked up the poodle, turning it in my hand, the faint streetlight reflecting off the pink rhinestones. “I know this pin. One of the cute young chickie volunteers at Scummy’s campaign headquarters wore it on a white sweater when we were there. You think Scummy was diddling with the help and the pin was a little present?”
KiKi made a sour face and shuddered. “Sweet mother in heaven, he’s old enough to be her daddy. Then again women like men with power, and men like . . . well we know full well what men like.”
Kiki plucked the skewered olives from my drink, handed them to me, and took the martini. Some days were like that, I realized. Just when you really needed the martini, you wound up with the toothpick.
“You know,” KiKi said, her brow creased in deep thought. “Maybe Money-Honey found the pin too and realized what was going on with hubby and the volunteers. That’s why she faked the running mascara and looking all upset at the funeral. Deep down she was glad he was dead and gone. But Money-Honey being ticked off at her dead husband doesn’t get us any closer to finding who killed him. Right now I’d say Archie Lee is the obvious choice since he gained the most, and then there’s that Dozer guy that Mercedes told us about.”
“I met a caterer who has it in for Mamma and didn’t like Scummy, and then there’s Marigold and Butler on the kill-Scummy list. I don’t know what’s going on there, but something sure is. Cazy Ledbetter and Lolly hated Seymour, and if you open up an account at the savings and loan where Cazy worked, we could ask around and see what the employees have to say. I think the savings and loan is giving away toasters. Everybody can use a toaster.”
“I already have a toaster.” KiKi stood and finished off the last gulp of martini. “Besides, tomorrow morning Putter’s in a golf tournament over there on Hilton Head Island. I’m driving the golf cart for luck, and you, my little sweet pea, have a dance lesson with a bunch of juvenile delinquents. Cazy, the savings and loan, and the toaster are just going to have to wait their turn.”
• • •
WAS I REALLY THIS OBNOXIOUS AS A TEENAGER,
I wondered while standing in KiKi’s parlor staring at ten kids who wanted to be here as much as I did. “You need to turn off the phones and pay attention,” I said for the third time.
“What if something happens?” Kelly Ann Randolph asked with her eyes still fixed on the screen.
“It’s Saturday morning in Savannah, honey. Nothing’s happening.”
“You mean it’s not like last night when you got thrown out of that bar?” Linton Parish gave me an arrogant look. All the other little darlings of notable Savannah families snickered, making me wonder if Uncle Putter still kept that Smith and Wesson in the hall closet.
I heaved a sigh. I had promised KiKi I’d teach her class, and I’d do it if it killed me . . . or them. Right now it was a toss-up. I selected an Adam Levine song from KiKi’s iPod. The guy sang like no other and was delicious enough to make any woman forget her troubles, and I had ten big ones.
“Take your partner like this,” I said, claiming Linton Parish as my guinea pig. Give
me
a hard time, and you pay for it. Linton was my height, rail thin, and considered himself God’s gift to Savannah thanks to his parents who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was and, given half a chance, informed everyone else in the city of that fact.
The dear boy’s left clammy hand took my right one, his right hand went to the small of my back, then it slid right down to my butt. He grinned and gave a squeeze. After last night I didn’t think my life could sink any lower, yet here I was, at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning being groped by a pimply faced teenager with hot chocolate breath.
A large hand suddenly closed around Linton’s scrawny neck. “I don’t think so, kid,” came Boone’s deep voice.
Linton’s eyes nearly popped right out of their sockets, and Boone steered him over to Kelly Ann. “Ditch your phones. Get your partners. Move it!”
Immediately, ten reprobates lined up, and Boone was my partner, his hand firm at my back, his right hand holding mine.
“Now dance,” Boone ordered, and we all did, “One More Night” playing in the background.
“Why are you here?” was all I could manage, my brain trying to compute what was going on. Boone and I battling it out I understood as business as usual. The possibility of Boone and me dancing in Auntie KiKi’s parlor had never crossed my mind.
He gave me a lopsided grin, a smug glint in his eyes. “After last night’s escapades at Archie Lee’s and you winding up as gossip fodder yet again, your ass belongs to me, Blondie, not some snot-nosed kid. Any leads out there on Seymour’s murder are dead ends thanks to you, and lighten up a little, you’re like a Mac truck out here.”
Boone had on faded black jeans molded to a nice package in front and the state’s best buns in back. His mussed blue T-shirt felt soft under my left hand. He was unshaven, his dark chin close to my cheek, a lingering woodsy scent of soap and shampoo drifting my way. A hint of danger hummed under the surface as always with Boone, even when dancing. There was never a doubt as to who led whom, and Boone was good, really good. The kids sucked.
“Pay attention,” he ordered again. All eyes focused on us gliding around the room, Boone throwing in a little swing. He gave me a wise-guy smile and held me a little tighter, not rough tighter, just . . . tighter.
I missed a step, our hips touching, thighs brushing. His smile faded, and Boone missed the next step, his eyes now black as midnight.
“How’d you learn to dance?” I asked, needing to say something, anything, to get my mind off . . . dancing.
“Either that or off to juvie.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Do I dance like I’m kidding?”
“No.” I swallowed. “You don’t dance like you’re kidding at all.” My voice was barely a whisper. It was suddenly hard to breathe. The song drifted off, the last beat dying before Boone took a step away. His hand fell from my waist, the absence unsettling.
“You’re . . . a good dancer,” he said, his voice low, ragged. “I didn’t expect . . . this.” Then Walker Boone turned around and walked out the door.
A
LITTLE
before ten I finished the dance lesson, the kids more angel than devil with the possibility of Boone returning at any moment, and if he had, I probably would have peed my pants.
My heart had been doing the slow-thud-and-flip-flop thing since he had walked out the door forty-five minutes ago. I hadn’t been able to concentrate for beans. What was wrong with me? It was a simple foxtrot, not even a rumba. It was Walker Boone for heaven’s sake, the bane of my existence through divorce hell and beyond.
It had to be the Adam Levine influence I told myself. “One More Night” was one of my favorite songs, and Levine’s voice could turn any situation, even a teen dance lesson and Walker Boone into something . . . hot. I took a few deep brain-cleansing breaths as I locked up KiKi’s house and headed for mine. Mamma’s Caddy was parked at the curb.
“You’re all flushed,” she said to me while getting out of the car.
“Taught one of KiKi’s dance classes is all.” We started up the walk together. “Are you here for breakfast?” I asked, needing to get my brain focused on something else besides Boone and midnight black eyes. “I was just going to the store. I can fix pancakes, I’m getting better at pancakes, they’re not so gooey in the middle, and if you add enough syrup, you don’t even notice.”
“You’re rambling. What happened now?” Mamma stopped and looked back at me, a quizzical expression on her face. “Walker dropped by my place a half hour ago. He looked upset and all out of sorts, too.”
“Really?” My mouth went completely dry.
“Did you do battle again?”
“Not exactly.”
“I declare, you two are oil and vinegar.”
“Sometimes.”
“You’re always at each other over that divorce or whatever else is in the wind. Savannah’s not that big. You’re going to keep running into each other.” Mamma headed for the steps. “One of these days you’ll have to bury the hatchet and kiss and make up, you know.”
I tripped on the top step and landed on all fours.
“Oh for goodness’ sake,” Mamma said, helping me up. “It’s just an old expression, but it would be nice if you two got along. You’re going to drive each other crazy.”
“Did he say anything?”
Mamma pushed open the front door. “He said you needed me to come right over and lend a hand. That fall was a mighty busy time at the Fox and you couldn’t keep up. Said you needed me to pitch in for a few weeks and help out.”
Mamma held out her arms, showing off her white blouse and black tailored slacks. “I’m dressed for work. You just tell me what to do. I’m all yours.”
Well, there you go. Boone and his out-of-sorts were about carrying out his plan to get Mamma here as watchdog and being all pleased with himself that he pulled it off. The dance was just a dance and nothing more. Why would I think otherwise? It was Adam Levine’s fault, pure and simple.
I plastered a big smile on my face for Mamma. “I’m glad you could make it. November is hectic. The change of seasons makes people want to change their wardrobes. I’ll show you the ropes. You’ll love working at the Fox. I have terrific customers.”
BW trotted down the steps after having hogged the whole bed in my absence. He did the paws-out-butt-up stretch and yawned so wide I could see clear back to his tail. Oh, for the life of a dog. I let him out the back where chasing critters would lead to KiKi’s yard or the Abbott’s and not the street.
When I came back from the kitchen, Mamma was staring at the deserted campaign headquarters, no volunteers scurrying about, no phones ringing or fax machines grinding. A stack of flyers sat lonely and forlorn on a table, yard signs in the corner, discarded “Elect Gloria Summerside” hats on the floor, and more stuff back in the kitchen.
I came up beside her and took her hand. “Boone’s going to find the killer, and then it’s full steam ahead for your campaign. We’ll make up for lost time. You’ll be a wonderful alderman; everyone knows that.”
“Scandal, even if it’s later proven bogus, pretty much kills any chance of winning an election, honey. I think it’s over for me.”
“But Savannah needs you.”
“I’ve been thinking about this,” Mamma said with a smile, but it was one of those forced ones like when I got a D in chemistry after studying for a week. “Archie Lee will be okay as alderman. Getting on the ballot was a joke to him at first, but from what I hear he’s taking it more seriously now. My fear is he’ll be swayed by his beer-drinking buddies and not do what’s best for the city, and you truly need to stay away from his bar. I hear his brother is mighty protective, almost as protective as my daughter is of me.”
Mamma gave me a little wink and kissed my cheek. “Did you really land on your behind right out there in that alley?”
“I had a hankering for boiled peanuts, is all, and Archie Lee’s brother thought I was there to cause trouble with me being your daughter. A little misunderstanding, there’s nothing to worry about.”
I hated Facebook. I hated that Zuckerberg guy and the Twitter guy and any communication device with a lower case
i
in front of it. The goal to connect the whole freaking world was making my life a living hell. How was I supposed to find Scummy’s killer, keep Mamma from fretting over my well-being, and keep Boone off my back . . . or the dance floor?
• • •
BY NOON SALES WERE UP, AND I’D TAKEN IN A NICE
batch of fall clothes for consignment along with a floral folding screen that we set up in front of the campaign headquarters in the parlor. We didn’t need customers going in and poking around, and Mamma didn’t need the constant reminder of what almost was.
In no time Mamma knew how to check people out and record the amounts so I could pay my consigners when they came in, and she’d really gotten into the swing of things by rearranging all the displays. Sweet saints in heaven, now the purples were in with the lime greens, orange with turquoise, and gold mixed in with pinks. A black scarf adorned a brown sweater, navy shoes sat next to black skirts, and an orange shoulder purse crossed a purple stripe coat.
Mamma had no color sense! Not one lick. Thank God she always wore black! I figured it was destiny along with a big dose of divine intervention that made her a judge, and she pretty much always dressed the black-and-white part. That she hired decorators to redo the house when she got the urge was a blessing from above. Thank you, Jesus!
Chantilly came in the front door, exchanged wide-eyed looks with two other shoppers, and held up her hands in astonishment. “What in the world is—”
“Is my mother doing here?” I cut in, pointing to Mamma behind the counter. “Mamma’s come to help me, and she redid all my displays. Aren’t they incredible?” I did the toothy-grin nod, hoping Chantilly would catch on.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Chantilly said. “Actually the displays are amazing. I don’t know quite how she accomplished such a feat.”
Mamma smiled, a little blush in her cheeks. I guess as a judge you don’t get many compliments on sending people off to the pokey.
“Now that Chantilly’s come to visit,” Mamma said to me, “and you have the extra help you need for a few hours, I’m going over to the courthouse. I won’t be trying cases for a while, so I need to get things ready for the other judges taking my place starting on Monday.”
Mamma nibbled her bottom lip for just a second, a hint of worry sneaking through. Then she was her bright, sunny self again. “I’ll be back here tomorrow right after church and for the rest of the week,” she added. “I can do the display in the front bay window. I’ll make it special.”
Mamma collected her purse and hustled out the door, and I felt my heart squeeze tight. Mamma was more worried than she was letting on. I hated that anything upset her. Baby bear protects mamma bear; at least that was my plan, and I wasn’t doing all that good of a job.
Chantilly grabbed my shoulders, snapping me back to the moment. She looked me dead in the eyes. “What happened to this place? It’s giving me a migraine. Isn’t it giving you a migraine? You’ve got to find the . . .” She eyed the shoppers and mouthed the word
killer
. “And you’ve got to do it right fast.”
“I know.” And I meant it for more reasons than arranging displays. “I may have a lead, and it’ll help you out, too. You can be my mole, my inside person.”
Chantilly took a step away. “Uh-oh.”
“It’s a job. You said you needed a job.”
“Uh-oh.”
“You’ll make some money, listen to what’s going on, and maybe pick up why this particular person didn’t care for you-know-who and maybe did you-know-what. It’s the best of both worlds. Great idea, huh?”
“You want me to take a job with a you-know-what?”
“Well we don’t know for sure, it’s just a possibility, and best I can tell she only gets upset when you cross her; otherwise, she’s a lovable little old gray-haired lady. She’s a caterer.”
Chantilly leaned across the checkout door, eyes thin slits, nose nearly touching mine. She whispered through gritted teeth, “You want me to work for someone who poisons people, and she’s a cook!”
“Cuisine by Rachelle,” I whispered back. “She’s a caterer and needs a delivery person because Mamma sent her son to prison and he did the deliveries before. Since you know the city so well, being a UPS driver like you were, you’re perfect. We know why she dislikes Mamma. All you have to do is find out why she dislikes Scummy and whether it is enough of a dislike for her to kill him and frame Mamma for it.”
“In other words you want me to see if she’s crazy as a loon.”
“It’s Saturday, and my guess is Rachelle is in her kitchen right now cooking for some event tonight. You should go see her. Tell her you were at Archie Lee’s when she dropped off the buns and heard she needs a delivery person. She likes Archie Lee. You’ll be able to pay your rent, not move in with your parents, and keep seeing Pillsbury. This is all in the name of love. Tell me, what do you think of that song ‘One More Night’?”
“Lethal. A girl gets dancing to that and she could fall for an orangutan.”
“That’s just what I suspected. Rachelle will never figure out that you know Mamma, but just in case she does don’t eat anything.”
• • •
I CLOSED THE SHOP AT FIVE TO MAKE GOOD ON MY
promise to BW to bring home the bacon, or in his case the hotdogs. I grabbed Old Yeller and the denim jacket that should have been donated to the Goodwill years ago. It had a frayed right sleeve from my arm rubbing against the desk while scribbling all those notes during my college days. The pink smudge on the bottom was from the time KiKi and I sampled different nail polishes at the local CVS, the stain by the pocket was from picking strawberries with Mamma, and the yellow splotch was from painting the shutters of Cherry House for the first time. It was a stonewashed diary. How could I give this jacket to the Goodwill?
Kroger’s was right around the corner, an easy walk from my house. I remembered my two reusable market eco-friendly bags so I could carry one in each hand, the trick being not to overload them so my arms were two inches longer when I got back from the store than when I left. The night air was crisp, a hint of wood smoke lingering from fireplaces in use to take the chill off the house as KiKi would say.
As I crossed the street, a red BMW slowed beside me, and the window powered down, framing Hollis’s face in the opening. Hollis was in his mid-forties, a touch of gray at the temples, and
GQ
handsome. You know the saying
don’t judge a book by its cover
? That went double for Hollis.
“Nothing better to do on a Saturday night than grocery shop?” Hollis quipped. “Thought you’d be hobnobbing out at the country club with the rest of us. Billy Bob Sayer’s annual birthday bash. Headed there myself after picking up Judy Rollins; we’re an item now.”
“What do you want, Hollis?”
“I hear your mamma’s moved her campaign headquarters to Cherry House. Gee, that’s got to be real good for business.” He laughed. Actually it was more of a sneer; with Hollis it was hard to tell one from the other. “Bet you’re not making a dime with all that confusion. That big old house is going to have you in bankruptcy, Reagan, mark my words.”
“And you want to sell it for me and spare me all that unnecessary aggravation. We’ve been through this, Hollis. I saved you from an orange jumpsuit wardrobe and mystery-meat cuisine for the next twenty to twenty-five years. Cherry House is mine free and clear.”
