Tressed to Kill (8 page)

“That color is gorgeous on you,” I said.
She turned over the price tag and winced. “Maybe, but I can’t blow the month’s food budget on one blouse.” She hung it up.
“Just let me know if you need any help, ladies,” Filomena, a willowy blonde about my mom’s age, called from behind the counter as we moved toward a sale rack at the back of the store.
Stella took charge. “Tell Grace what you told me about Philip and Constance fighting,” she suggested.
Janelle took a deep breath. “I want you to know I wouldn’t be talking behind my employer’s back if it weren’t so important to Stella,” she said.
“We’ve been best friends since third grade,” Stella put in, squeezing her friend’s hand.
“I understand,” I said. “I really appreciate it, Janelle.”
She nodded. “Well, like I told Stella, Philip was authorizing a lot of risky loans. The bank almost went under with the subprime mortgage crash, and his mama caught on to what he was doing. She read him the riot act, I’ll tell you. My office is next door to his, and the walls aren’t but a couple of layers of drywall—they don’t exactly soak up much sound, not like in the old building when my dad used to work there.”
I pulled a pair of lemon capris off the rack, trying to make it look like we were shopping and not conspiring. “So what happened then?”
Janelle lowered her voice even more. “I’m not sure, but I think Philip may have been using the bank’s money to cover some of his own investments.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” Stella asked, wrinkling her brow.
“Very,” Janelle said dryly. “I think his mama suspected because she told him she was going to have the auditors in.”
“When was this?” I found a striped blouse that matched the capris and held it up.
Stella nodded approvingly. “That’d be cute on you, Grace.”
“Last Tuesday,” Janelle said, fiddling with the gold stud in her ear.
Stella and I exchanged a look. “The day before Constance died,” Stella breathed. “So with his mother out of the way, he can sell the bank and have all the money he needs. Or hang on to it and not worry about getting caught?”
“I heard him tell Simone he can’t sell the bank,” I said. I handed Janelle a flowered scarf from a jumble in a sale basket. Its burgundy, purple, and cream pansies added pizzazz to her suit when she draped it absently around her neck.
“Of course not,” Janelle said, shaking her head at our ignorance. “They’d have to have an audit before a sale could take place, and an audit is the one thing in the world Philip DuBois wants to avoid right now.”
“So he’s no better off than when Constance was alive?” Stella asked.
“I didn’t say that. This gives him time to come up with the cash somewhere else,” Janelle said.
“But to murder his own mother?” Stella looked doubtful. “Is he capable of that?” She looked from me to Janelle, her face troubled.
“I think very few people on this planet are incapable of killing,” Janelle said matter-of-factly. “It’s just a matter of what pushes each of us to the point where killing seems like the only choice. For you, Stel, it might be someone threatening Jessica. For Philip, maybe it’s the fear of prison.” She glanced at the dainty gold watch on her wrist. “Look, I’ve got to go.
Please
don’t tell anyone I talked to you. It could mean my job.” She unwrapped the scarf from around her neck and let it slither into the basket.
“We won’t,” Stella and I promised. “Thanks,” I added. “I’m going to get this outfit”—I held up the capri set—“so you go on without me.”
Both women were out of sight by the time Filomena rang up my purchase and accepted my check. Walking quickly, I pondered what I’d overheard and what Janelle had said. It sounded like trouble in Siblingville. Apparently, Constance had left the bank and house to Philip even though she wasn’t happy with how he was running the bank—perhaps she hadn’t had time to change her will—and Sea Mist Plantation to Simone. And Janelle intimated that Philip was desperate for money to make up investment losses and replace what he might have “borrowed” from bank deposits. Speaking of money . . . I wondered if there were any other interesting bequests in the will? Maybe someone besides Philip or Simone had been anxious to inherit and had killed Constance to speed things up. Wills were public record, weren’t they? I needed to find out who all benefited from Constance’s death. The old saw might suggest “cherchez la femme,” but my version was more useful in modern times: cherchez la moola.
VONDA CAME BY AS PROMISED WHEN MY MOM AND I were locking up for the day. Mom greeted Vonda, asked her when Ricky was going to make an honest woman of her again (like she did at least once a month), and shooed us out of the salon. “I’ll finish up here,” she said. “You two scoot.”
So we scooted to a trendy, beach-front bar Vonda liked to troll in when she was on the outs with Ricky. I divide people into two groups depending on whether they prefer the ocean side of town or the river end. River people prefer the subtle beauty of the Satilla and the marshes to the flashy beauty and frenetic activity of the beach. Vonda’s an ocean person. I’m a river person. I didn’t mind the beach, though, especially when unsettled weather kept the tourists away. With a storm clearly imminent—the sky boiled with angry clouds over the water—The Roving Pirate, known to locals as The Pirate, had few patrons. We snagged a window table and ordered: a glass of house white for me and a mojito for Vonda. I asked her how it went with the governor.
She shrugged. “Oh, you know politicians. He promised to push for better technology for RJ’s school—for all elementary schools in ‘the great state of Georgia,’ but you know how that goes. Politicians are like Alzheimer’s patients: their long-term memory is great—who contributed to their first campaign, who tried to sabotage their bill in 1990—but their short-term memory is nonexistent. I’ll bet if you asked him right now who Vonda Jamison was, or what I talked to him about, all you’d get was a blank stare.” She stabbed at a cocktail napkin with the little plastic sword that skewered a lime in her drink.
“I’m sure he remembers you,” I said. Men always remembered Vonda.
A rumble of thunder drew our attention to the window. As I watched, a fat drop of rain splatted against the glass. Others quickly followed.
“More rain,” Vonda said, her voice as dreary as the weather.
“We need it,” I reminded her. “Think how happy the town’s gardeners will be.”
She spun her forefinger in circles. “Whoop-de-doo.”
As if the rain had washed the last remnants of sun from the sky, darkness fell and opaqued the window so I could no longer see the heaving water. I could still hear it, though. A busboy meandered around the bar, lighting the candles in round amber-colored holders that squatted on each table.
The server arrived with refills. “That gentlemen over there wants to buy you a drink,” she said, nodding her head at a suited man watching us hopefully from the bar.
Vonda looked him over. “Salesman,” she said disparagingly. “Office products or restaurant supplies. Something boring.” Nevertheless, she sent a thank-you smile his way. The moment of flirtation seemed to have chased away her doleful mood. “Hey, I saw Minnie Parker at the car wash yesterday.”
“So?” I was totally uninterested in the whereabouts of my former mother-in-law. She’d suggested I have a boob job before Hank and I got married so I could “fill out the wedding gown a bit more.” She’d had her breasts augmented for her fiftieth birthday, and she “just knew” that every woman short of Dolly Parton would have a more fulfilling life if they upped their cup size. When I told her I was perfectly happy with my 34Bs, she asked archly, “But is my Hank?”
“So, she looked fit as a fiddle, healthy as a horse . . . didn’t Hank say he moved back here because she was ill?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t much want to ruin the evening by talking about Hank.
“I think that was only an excuse,” Vonda said, leaning across the table to peer into my face. “He moved back here because he wants you back.”
“Well, as the old saying goes, ‘wantin’ don’t make it so,’ or something like that.” I finished the wine in my glass and eyed the replacement sent over by Mr. Salesman. I didn’t want to encourage him by drinking it. Vonda had no such hesitations and was halfway through her second mojito.
“You wouldn’t get back together with him, would you?”
She tried to sound casual, but I heard the anxiety in her voice. Vonda had never thought Hank was good enough for me, as she put it, and she’d dragged me out to celebrate when the divorce became final.
“Vonda.” I gave her a look.
“I knew you wouldn’t,” she smiled, “but I had to make sure. You haven’t gotten laid in—What? A year?—and long stretches without sex can make any port look appealing in the storm.”
I laughed, forcing the image of Special Agent Dillon out of my head. Where had he come from? “Believe me, I could be celibate for the next ten years and not get a hankering for Hank. I don’t know why I stuck with him so long, except he got to be a habit.”
“A bad one. They should make a patch for getting over exes . . . you know, like a nicotine patch helps you go cold turkey with cigarettes.”
I heard the wistfulness in her voice. “Missing Ricky?”
“Hell, no.”
Her swift response and sidelong look at Mr. Salesman didn’t convince me.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, afraid that in her current mood she’d hook up with the guy and regret it in the morning. “I’ll drop you and take the sitter home.”
“No sitter. Ricky’s got RJ for the weekend,” she said. The fact that they still lived in the same house, albeit on opposite sides of the twelve-bedroom B&B, made joint custody easier. She pushed back from the table. “I miss him.”
I didn’t ask if she meant RJ or Ricky. “I know. C’mon.”
The parking lot was only steps from the door, but we were drenched by the time we got to my car. The cold water pinging our skin and ozone-scented air jolted Vonda out of the doldrums, and she was laughing as we slammed the doors shut. “Thanks,” she said, shaking her head like a blond spaniel and flinging water drops onto the windshield and dash. As frequently happens, the rain let up as soon as we were in the car.
“Timing,” I said. “Everything in life is timing.”
Her Magnolia House B&B was three blocks from my apartment. As I dropped her, a fire truck surged past, its siren shrieking. “See you at church tomorrow?” Vonda asked.
“Sure. Maybe we can do brunch afterward.” The ladies from Violetta’s—Mom, Althea, Stella, and sometimes Rachel—had a tradition of doing brunch after Sunday services at the First Baptist Church. I’d been joining them more often than not since I came back.
“It’s a date,” Vonda said. She looked out the side window at the darkening sky. The rain had tapered off to not much more than a drizzle. “Thanks, girlfriend.”
“Anytime,” I said as she leaned over to hug me. With a quick smile, she pushed open the door and dashed for her front porch, dodging the raindrops in a ridiculous serpentine we’d invented as teens. I laughed and waved as I put the car in gear.
Mom’s house was on my way home, and I debated stopping in for a cup of herbal tea and a chat. As I turned onto her block, I spied the fire truck and a mass of firefighters, cops, and onlookers blocking the street. What the—? Then I saw the flames leaping from the front of Mom’s house.

Chapter Eight

I STOMPED ON THE ACCELERATOR, AND THE CAR shot down the street. I forgot to calculate the effect of wet streets, and the car slid, almost T-boning a police car, when I hit the brakes. I tumbled out. An ugly smell of gasoline and wet, burnt wood enveloped me.
“Mom!”
I dashed toward the house, heedless of the fire. My feet slipped on the wet grass and I sprawled flat on my stomach. I scrambled up again. A strong arm grabbed me around the waist and hauled me backward.
“My mom!” I struggled to free myself, clawing at the arm.
“Violetta’s just fine, Grace,” Hank’s voice said in my ear. “Your mom’s fine.”
The words finally got through, and I stopped kicking back at his shins. His hands on my shoulders turned me forty-five degrees, and I could see Mom sitting between the open doors of an ambulance, a uniformed EMT doing something to her hands. She hadn’t seen my arrival.
I wrenched myself out of Hank’s grip and trotted toward her. “Mom! Are you all right?”
She looked at me over her shoulder. “I’m fine, dear, but this nice young man insists on putting ointment on my hands.” She held up her hands, displaying pink palms.
The EMT smiled and said, “First degree. Not much worse than a sunburn.” He tucked a tube of ointment and a roll of gauze into the box at his side.
“You’re burned! What happened?”
“She very foolishly tried to put out the fire herself with a fire extinguisher.” A stocky man of about sixty came around the far side of the ambulance. He had crew-cut hair and ruddy skin, and wore a fire hat that said “Chief.”
“Roger MacDonald,” he introduced himself, holding out a square hand. “Fire’s out.”
I shook it, liking the strength in his grip. I looked toward the house where, sure enough, the flames were gone and tendrils of smoke, slightly grayer than the night, wisped from the veranda. Two firemen were coiling a hose. “What happened, Chief?”
“It’s not foolish to try to save your home,” my mom interrupted. She glared at the chief from under her brows.
“What did you always teach your children, Mrs. Terhune?” MacDonald asked. “Get out in case of a fire, right? Don’t go back in for
any
thing.”
Boy, he had Mom’s number. He even inflected his words like she had when she drilled me and Alice Rose about fire safety.
“Of course, but that’s diff—”
I put a hand on her shoulder and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” I said. “Now, would someone please tell me what happened?”
The ambulance driver indicated he needed to leave and eased Mom off the end of the vehicle. She avoided using her hands. Burned palms would make cutting hair difficult. But that was something to worry about another day.
“It was a Molotov cocktail,” MacDonald said.
“A what?” I stared at him blankly, thinking I had misheard.
“Molotov cocktail,” he repeated. “You fill a glass bottle with gasoline, stick a rag in the neck, light it, and throw it. Boom!” He flung his hands apart. “Drive by and toss it out the window. Piece of cake.”
“That’s absurd.” Mom was shaking her head. “Kids around here don’t do that kind of thing. They might egg a house, or TP it, but not fire. Maybe in Atlanta.” Sin city, as far as she was concerned.
“We don’t know that it was kids,” MacDonald observed. “Do you have any enemies?”
A vision of Simone shouting that she was going to put Violetta’s out of business flashed into my head. I ignored it. “How much damage is there?”
“You were lucky,” the chief said. “The bottle broke on the veranda. It didn’t go through a window like it was probably supposed to. And the rain helped. All you’ve got is a little charring and some smoke damage on the siding.”
“Thank God,” Mom said. She gripped my hand, then winced and pulled away.
“Why don’t you come home with me for the night, Mom? You can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“Certainly not. I’m not going to let hooligans playing dangerous pranks chase me out of my home. But thank you for the offer.”
“Then I’ll stay here,” I said, resigned. “We can call the insurance company in the morning.”
“And I’ll let the police know,” MacDonald put in. “They’ll probably have a detective out here first thing.”
Great. Just what we needed. More face time with the police. Speaking of police, I looked around for Hank, to thank him for keeping me away from the fire, but he had left. Most of the crowd had drifted away now that the excitement was over, but a new figure came bustling down the sidewalk. When he got close enough, I recognized Walter Highsmith, incongruous in a plum-colored smoking jacket over striped pajama bottoms. His mustache drooped a little.
“Miss Violetta,” he said in his reedy voice when he got close enough. “Are you all right?” He cast a suspicious look at Chief MacDonald.
I introduced them. They shook hands perfunctorily, giving off the vibes of rival tomcats.
“I’ve got to get going,” the chief said. “I’ll call around in the morning to finish up my report and make sure everything’s okay.”
“I can take care of Miss Violetta,” Walter bristled.
With an ironic smile, Roger MacDonald turned away and strode to his red car.
“I don’t need taking care of,” Mom said. “I need sleep. Come on, Grace.”
“I’ll escort you,” Walter said. He crooked a courtly elbow and offered it to Mom.
She took his arm willingly enough, and I realized she must be exhausted. I followed as they made their way carefully past the veranda to the rear door. The smell of gasoline and charred wood hung heavy on the air. Somehow, I didn’t think I’d find it as restful as the familiar scents of permanent solution and hairspray.