A Teeny Bit of Trouble (36 page)

“You’re awfully twitchy.” She patted my arm. “Your problem isn’t blondness, it’s farmness. You know about peaches, not haute couture. Not that I’m trying to categorize you or anything.”

No, of course not. I tossed down the rest of the margarita. It slid down my throat like a slow-moving glacier. I felt my tight, little smile lock into place.

She leaned closer. “Have I offended you?”

I shrugged. In the old days I would have launched a sideways attack. I would have made a flippant remark about her sci-fi décor and asked if her designer’s last name was Spock.

The doorbell echoed in the foyer.

“Drink up,” Dot said, and walked to the hall. I put down my glass and started to go back to the stove, but my knees buckled. I leaned against the counter. I couldn’t be drunk. Not this fast. Way off in the distance, I heard a masculine voice say, “Am I early?”

“You’re right on time,” Dot said. “Teeny’s already here.”

Footsteps. Laughter. Dot came into the kitchen, trailed by Son Finnegan. His nose was sunburned as if he’d spent the day on a boat. He wore brown loafers and tan shorts. His green plaid shirt matched his eyes.

“Hey, Boots. You ready to party?”

thirty-two

I stepped toward Son, and a rush of dizziness hit me so strong, I thought I might fall into his arms. I turned back to the counter and grabbed it with both hands. What was Dot trying to pull? I thought she disliked Son. Had I misunderstood?

“What’s wrong, Boots?” He glanced at my lip, then he looked at Dot’s sling.

“Did I miss the girl fight?” He winked at me. “Who won?”

“We were attacked by Norris Philpot,” Dot said, and poured him a drink.

“Seriously?” He took a sip and grimaced. His gaze swept back to me. “Sorry about your lip, Boots. You all right?”

“I was until you got here,” I said.

He frowned at Dot. “You didn’t tell her I was coming?”

“Nope,” she said.

The left side of Son’s mouth angled into a smile, but the other half was still frowning. “What’s going on, Dot?”

“Teeny’s got love problems. She isn’t sure if she loves you or Coop. So I thought I’d bring y’all together.”

I realized I was holding my breath. I let it go and air rushed between my clenched teeth. “That’s a lie!”

Dot’s lower lip slid forward until it was the twin of mine—minus the scab. “It’s the truth. You still love Son. But you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

“Did you set this up behind Teeny’s back?” Son asked.

“Well, yes.” Dot looked flustered. “I knew she wouldn’t agree.”

Son looked confused. “I need another drink,” he said.

“Gladly.” Dot refilled his glass. He turned his back on us and faced the breakfast nook, where mismatched Lucite chairs were clustered around a stainless steel table.

“I’m going home.” I tucked my purse under my arm.

“That won’t fix your problems.” Dot yanked my purse away and set it on the counter, out of my reach. “You and Coop are finished. He may have given you a ring, but he won’t marry you.”

“So now you’re a fortune teller?” I lunged for my purse, but she pushed me back.

“Even if you accepted his proposal, Irene won’t let him marry you.” Dot refilled my glass and pushed it into my hands. “Face it, you and Son are meant to be together until death do you part.”

She was starting to creep me out. A long shadow fell over us. I looked up. Son leaned against the counter, the margarita glass caught in the V of his fingers.

The back of my throat tasted of rum and bile. I was totally going to throw up. “Where’s the powder room?”

Dot pointed toward the hall. “Third door on the left.”

I lurched out of the kitchen, but I lost count of the doors. I veered around a corner, into a bedroom furnished with more Lucite. I heard a meow. A white cat uncoiled from a white bench.

Why did she keep a natural predator around her birds? It glared at me with copper eyes. “How do you get along with the budgies?” I asked.

The cat gave me an indignant look, as if to say,
Do you see any feathers in my mouth?
It looked at my taffeta skirt and hissed.
A fashion catastrophe
, its eyes said.

A faint shred of civility prevented me from hissing back. Then I remembered I wanted to throw up, so I walked into the bathroom. I’d barely made it to the toilet before the margarita came up. On my way out of the bathroom, I got dizzy again and ended up in an alcove. Here, the bird chirping was louder, and it seemed to come from a walk in closet.

I peeked inside. White uniforms hung next to ball gowns. Clear plastic engulfed a chinchilla jacket. A jewelry case stood open, and diamond rings glittered against black velvet. Further down, a shelving unit was crammed with pill bottles. I squinted at the labels. Sonata. Oxycontin. Xanax. Another shelf held jars that were filled with colorful capsules.
ROHYPNOL
was written on one jar. Vials of a milky drug were lined up like nail polish.

Another sick feeling waved over me, and I put my hand on the wall. Had Dot slipped a Sonata into the margaritas? And where were the budgies? I tracked the sound to an intercom system that was set into the wall. I pressed the “open” button, and a CD disk slid out. The chirping stopped. The air was still as a tomb. I glanced at the CD label and saw
MAMA’S BUDGIES
written in back slanted script. My finger shook as I pushed the CD back in. The birdsong started again.

At the other end of the closet, I saw a stainless steel Sub-Zero refrigerator. Was I hallucinating? I rubbed my eyes, but the refrigerator was still there. Why did she need a Sub-Zero in her closet? To chill champagne?

I yanked open the door and light spilled out, showing a gleaming white interior. On the shelves were clear glass bottles. I lifted one. Inside, a round white globe was nestled in a rack, like a tiny pickled egg.

Only it wasn’t an egg. It was an eyeball.

A dizzy vortex spun around me. I dropped the bottle. Dot worked for the chop shop, and maybe Son did, too. They’d killed Barb and Kendall and Vlado and the Goth-girl, and they were going to kill me.

I felt an adrenaline rush, fight or flight. The flight won.
Get out of here, Teeny.
I staggered out of the closet, into the bedroom.

Dot’s voice echoed from the kitchen. She was talking about her marital history. But she seemed to be talking to herself, because Son didn’t answer.

“My husbands come and go,” she said, “but my surname never changes. And it’s a darn good thing. Can you imagine the confusion? Dot Agnew-Smithers-McMann-Alexander-Travers-Sanchez. It sounds like the scientific name for a Hantavirus.”

I made my way to the foyer. I was almost out the door when a hand pulled me back.

“You’re too drunk to drive,” Dot said. She plucked a white hair off my black top. “I see that you’ve met my cat. Munchkin ate the last of the budgies. All I have left of them are Mama’s recordings. But you figured that out, didn’t you? Because the music stopped playing for a second.”

A humming noise roared through my head, thousands of beating wings and chomping teeth, a plague of locusts. “I didn’t hear any music,” I said.

She pulled off her sling, then she grabbed the broom.

“You’re not in Charleston anymore, Teeny.” She slugged me with the broom handle and everything went dark.

*   *   *

I awoke in Dot’s breakfast room, tied to a Lucite chair. Son sat across the table, his head lolling to the side. A rope was lashed around his chest, and his eyes were closed. Dot squatted beneath him, tying his feet to the chair. But he was her partner. Why was she restraining him?

I couldn’t think straight. My head throbbed.
Cat. Broom. Eyeballs
.

The doorbell rang. Dot raised her head, the cockatoo curls trembling. She got up and walked toward the kitchen, leaving behind a lethal cloud of Shalimar. When she turned into the hall, I tried to squirm out of the rope, but it was too tight.

“Son?” I said. My heartbeat scattered, beating in my fingertips and belly.

His head jerked up.

“Were you and Dot selling illegal body parts?” My voice sounded slurry, as if words were melting on my tongue.

“You crazy, Boots?” His gaze was unfocused.

“Son, listen to me. Dot’s going to kill us. Try to loosen your ropes. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Let me sleep, Boots,” he said. “Just let me sleep.”

From the hallway, I heard furious whispers, male and female, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

“Son! Please try to get away.” I twisted around in the chair, but the rope cut painfully into my breasts.

“Love you, too, Boots.”

“We’ve got to leave.” I broke off. What had I meant to say? My thoughts finned off and vanished. Something tickled my thigh. I looked down. My blue-brown pocket gaped open, and a tarantula lifted its arm. Holy crap. A stowaway from Miss Uma’s house. So that’s what had been itching me.

Dot stepped into the kitchen. I wanted to ask her a question, but I couldn’t remember it. My thoughts darted and darted, like bait fish swimming in black water.

“You doing okay, Teeny?” she asked.

Like she gave a shit, that miserable budgie bitch. I wanted to ask what the hell she thought she was doing, but my tongue was stuck to my teeth.

“You can come in now,” Dot said to the person in the hall.

Footsteps clapped on the floor. Then a tall man walked in. At least, I thought it was a man. His face was hidden by a Bill Clinton mask. A long blond wig hung in stiff curls to the man’s shoulders.

I tried to suck in air, but it felt like a twenty-volume set of encyclopedias were piled on my chest. Hadn’t the Sweeney police found that mask? Barb’s murderer was sitting in a jail cell, waiting for me to pick him out of a lineup.

The man lifted the mask.

thirty-three

Josh Eikenberry threw the mask onto the counter and smiled, but his hazel eyes were chips of jade. He was alive?

Son lifted his head and squinted. “You look like a tranny,” he said.

“Nice to see you, too,” Josh said in his best “greet the mourners” voice.

“Why aren’t you paralyzed?” I asked.

“Cured by Jesus.” Josh stepped around the counter. He wore black pants, a long-sleeved black shirt, and hiking boots.

“He never was paralyzed,” Dot said.

“That’s a lie,” Josh said. “I was, too.”

“Just for two weeks.” She turned to me. “He had spinal edema—fluid was pressing on the nerves. When the swelling went down, he was fine.”

“It was the worst two weeks of my life, not counting this one.” Josh sighed.

“I’ll put you on my prayer list,” Dot said.

“But I don’t understand.” I frowned at Josh. “If you weren’t paralyzed, why were you in a wheelchair?”

“It’s the perfect alibi,” he said. “Nobody would suspect a guy in a chair. And nobody did. Not until Barb ruined everything.”

“He also liked the way women fussed over him,” Dot said. “Especially Barb.”

Josh blushed.

Dot turned to me. “They were lovers. She wanted to punish Lester for his affair. That’s why she left the business. I thought she’d come to her senses, but she had other ideas. She was going to dump her little girl on you and Coop, then she was going to leave the country.”

My stomach pitched. Cayman Islands. Lockbox.

“Thanks to her, I’ve lost everything,” Josh said. “There’s a whole bunch of places that don’t have extradition treaties with the United States, but they’re all third world toilets. How will I ever find a decent home in Rwanda?”

“The police think you got burned up with acid,” I said.

“No, that was Norris.”

“Did you put a cooler of eyeballs in his car?” I asked in a shaking voice.

“I did that,” Dot said. “He had it coming. He pinched my butt one time.”

“But I thought Norris was slicing off corneas?” I said.

Josh snorted. “You crazy? We had a crew working for us.”

I blinked. “Then who was at the Savannah Airport?”

“Nobody,” Josh said. “Dot phoned the police with an anonymous tip.”

“All this lying is making me thirsty.” She pulled two beers from the fridge and handed one to Josh.

“Nothing like an ice cold Coors on a hot Georgia night.” He slurped up the foam. “Hey, I got a new joke. What’s red and bubbly? A granny in a microwave.”

“You’ve told that one before,” Dot said.

“I got a joke,” Son said. “What’s worse than a hundred undertakers in a trash can?”

I perked up. “One undertaker in a hundred trash cans,” I said.

“That’s lame.” Josh turned to Dot. “They’re too lucid. What’d you give them?”

“Pure grain alcohol, Coumadin, and Sonata. And, just for shits, a tiny bit of Rohypnol.”

“Sonata’s too weak.” Josh swung an imaginary golf club.

“It worked on Kendall.”

“Yeah, but you threw in a shitload of PGA. Besides, the drugs will show up in their blood.”

“
If
their blood is found.” Dot smiled and took a dainty sip of beer. “But we won’t let that happen this time.”

“You put Coumadin in our drinks?” Son cried. “You gave us blood thinner?”

“I hated to,” Dot said. “It makes dismemberment so messy. But I’m just covering my ass if y’all escape.”

“They won’t.” Josh pulled a .38 from his jacket.

I dug my fingernails into the rope and willed myself not to react.

“Put that damn gun away.” Dot set down her beer. “I’m using a Taser. It’s cleaner and quieter.”

Josh’s upper eyelid jerked, as if pulled by fishing line. “But I want to shoot Son,” he said. “He’s such an asshole.”

“Quit whining,” Dot said. “We’re going to do things my way from now on. I told you not to pull that cremation stunt. And
look
what happened. You should’ve embalmed Kendall. But no, you had to get creative. Vlado couldn’t follow instructions, either.”

“But he was a psycho.” Josh shrugged.

“He was stupid, and so are you,” Dot said. “Maybe I should get you a shock collar. Every time you screw up, I’ll give you a jolt. Then you’ll learn from your mistakes.”

His cheeks reddened, but he slid the .38 into his pocket.

I glanced at Son. He seemed to be dozing again.