Demise in Denim (2 page)

KiKi took a sip of martini and gave me her devil smile. I knew I was going to lose the argument before she opened her mouth. “This is Walker Boone we're talking about. He caught me when I fell off that there fire escape some months back, your own mamma put him through law school, and he showed Putter how to birdie the sixth hole out at Sweet Marsh Country Club, for which my dear husband will be
forever grateful. I wouldn't be one bit surprised if Walker Boone was hiding under our bed this very minute with Putter's blessing.”

“Uncle Putter would harbor a fugitive?”

“In the name of golf, all things are possible.” KiKi winked and poured a refill martini from the shaker. “While keeping BW company and waiting for you to get home, I've been making a list of who could have done in Conway. I didn't know the man all that well, personally, but I got it firsthand that he was into doing the horizontal hula with the marrieds. Maybe a jealous husband did the deed. Then again, there was no love lost between Conway and his other son, Tucker. Tucker got raised in the big house with all the money and private school and the like, but maybe Tucker had enough of Daddy Dear driving him crazy for thirty-something years and pulled the trigger. Best I can tell from the kudzu vine is that Tucker and Conway never got along, and lately things had gotten even worse.”

“Murder's a lot of not getting along.”

Something crashed inside the house, shattering the night quiet. I jumped, KiKi sloshed her martini, and BW didn't flinch a muscle. KiKi's eyes rounded, the white circles against the green facial goop giving the appearance of a hard-boiled egg in a salad. Sensible women would scream, call 911, grab the martinis and dog, and run like the dickens. Auntie KiKi and I were many things, but I don't remember
sensible
being on the list.

I set my glass beside KiKi's and grabbed Old Yeller, my indestructible yellow pleather purse that had saved my behind on more than one occasion. KiKi snapped up the silver cocktail
shaker for either whacking or drinking; with Auntie KiKi it was hard to tell which. We stepped over the sweetest pet but worst watchdog on the planet and opened the door to the entrance hall and once-upon-a-time dining room just beyond.

Moonlight spilled in through the rear windows, silhouetting the racks of dresses to the left; blouses, pants, and jackets to the right; and the table in the center with jewelry and evening purses. I flipped on the switch for the chandelier.

“Who's there?” I called out.

Footsteps skittered across the floor over our heads. I had either a big rodent problem or a break-in. Beady eyes? Whiskers? Skinny tail? Yikes! Truth be told, I was hoping for the break-in. I tore up the steps, with KiKi right behind me. We turned the corner at the top and faced a big guy with alcohol-infused breath and wild-looking bloodshot eyes that I could make out even in the dark. I had a break-in
and
a rodent problem. The guy took a swing at me and missed. KiKi threw the rest of the martini in his face and I added an Old Yeller uppercut to his jaw.

“I give up! I give up!” The guy stumbled back against the wall and slithered down to the floor as I switched on the hall lights.

“Tucker Adkins?” KiKi said as the guy swiped at his eyes. “What in the world are you doing in this here house uninvited? You should be home taking care of your family and your daddy's funeral arrangements.”

“What I'm doing is taking care of my daddy's killer.” Tucker staggered to his feet. “I'm here looking for Walker Boone. Why else would somebody like me be in a secondhand clothing store?”

I hadn't seen Conway Adkins very often, but from what I remembered Tucker had his daddy's rounded chubby face and receding hairline. Tucker pointed in my direction. “You were driving Boone's car; you were wearing his jacket and helping him get away. I saw the whole thing on Twitter. I figured the cops would have you locked up for doing such a thing, and since you and Boone are obviously an item he'd be in your house hiding out. I saw green-curler girl here out on the porch with the mangy mutt so I got in through the back; it was a piece of cake. You really need a better hiding place for your key.”

“You're here looking for Boone?” I asked.

“He killed my father, my own daddy, and he needs to pay for it and I'm going to find him.”

Drat! This was just what Ross said would happen. Because I was driving Boone's car, everyone would think I was helping him escape the long arm of the law no matter what. On the other hand, if it seemed like Boone and I were enemies and I made up some spiel as to why I didn't like him, others who had it in for Boone might confide in me and I could find out who had it in for him. Heck, it was worth a try.

“Are you kidding? Boone means nothing to me,” I blurted. “Fact is, we're enemies. Yeah, big-time enemies.” I parked my hands on my hips and went for the ticked-off wounded-victim look. “Boone took me to the cleaners in my divorce a couple years ago, and this is my chance to see him knocked down a peg or two. That guy thinks he's so special, that he's hot stuff, a real know-it-all if ever there was one, and good-looking. Actually he really is good looking with dark eyes and he has a terrific butt and—”

KiKi kicked my ankle, snapping me back to the situation at hand, which was
not
fixating on Boone's butt. “Look,” I continued, “I took Boone's car because he owes me, and with him on the run this was my chance to even the score a little. I lost everything in that divorce, including my own car that I paid for. Do you believe that? I want Walker Boone behind bars as much as you. If he were here in my house I'd call the police myself and applaud as they hauled his very nice-looking butt out of here.”

Tucker leaned in a little closer. “You got kind of a dopey look on your face.”

“That's revenge,” KiKi chimed in.

“Sure doesn't look like revenge.”

KiKi dropped the shaker on my foot.

“Ouch!” I yelped, an expression of pain and agony now replacing the dopey look—least I hoped so.

“Boone's hiding somewhere in this city,” Tucker said. “I'd bet my last dollar on it. He's going to try his best to pin Daddy's murder on someone else, and I'm going to make sure he's the one who goes to jail like he deserves.”

“And I'll help you,” I said, lying my little heart out as Tucker started for the steps. “I'm sorry about your father,” I called after him. “Even if you two didn't get along, it's mighty hard to lose a parent,” I added, doing a little digging of my own.

Tucker stopped and trudged back up the steps, his eyes trying to focus. “What are you talking about? My daddy and I got along fine. We were best of pals.”

“Except he left the Old Harbor Inn to Walker Boone and not you,” I said, remembering what Ross told me earlier at
the police station. “There had to be a good reason why he did such a thing.”

“Yeah, there is.” Conway's eyes got even angrier than before. “Boone talked my daddy into changing his will is what happened. Boone threatened him, and Daddy had to do what he said because Daddy was afraid of Boone. He was a gang member, for crying out loud. You don't mess with the gang, everyone knows that.”

“If Boone was into extortion, why not just demand money? Why the inn?”

Tucker's face reddened, his eyes blazing mad. “How the heck should I know? Ask Boone, he's the guilty one.” Tucker stumbled down the stairs and out the back door, as KiKi and I stared after him.

“I really do need to find a better hiding place for my spare key,” I said to myself as much as KiKi. “Do you think Tucker was poking around here looking for Walker because he's so distraught over his daddy on a slab over at House of Eternal Slumber?”

KiKi picked up the shaker. “I don't know about the distraught part, but there's no doubt that Tucker wants Walker in jail and the sooner the better.”

I grabbed a towel from the hall closet to mop up the martini. “What if he's the one who set Walker up to take the rap for the murder Tucker committed? I bet Tucker didn't much like that Daddy left the inn to Walker. That had to tick him off.”

“Except Tucker's mamma was from money and left him the bulk of the estate when she died four years ago. It's hard to imagine Tucker Adkins giving a hoot about fluffing
pillows and room service. Maybe he truly is distraught over losing Conway.”

KiKi and I exchanged a
yeah, when pigs fly
look and KiKi added, “There's some reason the old boy's got a bee in his bonnet, and it's more about finding Walker and putting him away than revenging poor dead Daddy. I wonder what Tucker Adkins is up to.”

“And how did Boone wind up in the middle of it?” I looked around the upstairs. “He's out there, somewhere close.”

KiKi yawned and headed for the stairs. “You never know about Walker; he could be right under your nose and you'd never see him unless he wanted you
to.”

E
ARLY
-MORNING
sun peeked through my bedroom window and a loud banging came from the front door. Prying open one sleep-deprived eye, I focused on the clock flashing six. My higher-math skills said that made for three and a half hours of sleep. That wasn't sleep, that was a long nap, and nothing good came from door banging at six
A.M.

BW stared at me from the hallway, his tail wagging and a
yippee, it's company
look in his eyes. Usually BW and I shared the bed, but the hall was cooler and spring cool was fast becoming summer heat. More banging came from below, and BW and I poked our heads out the bedroom window to see cars pulling to the curb and people with cameras hustling up my sidewalk. The press had obviously realized I wasn't being held at the police station, and to add
to the joy of the morning a guy in a camo jacket was standing on the roof of my porch and coming my way.

“Say cheese.” He snapped my picture and petted BW.

“What the . . . You can't do this. I'm a mess. I have on a Hello Kitty nightshirt with SpaghettiO stains.”
And I didn't have on a bra!

I hunched over to hide the obvious and the guy gave me a toothy grin and a thumbs-up sign and snapped more pictures as another photographer scrambled onto the roof, elbowing camo guy out of the way.

“You all are trespassing,” I said, as BW wagged his tail.

“So what are you going to do about it, chickie?” camo guy sneered.

I heard a soft creaking and some cracking, and then both photographers dropped straight through the roof butt-first, landing on the porch below. Four wide eyes stared up at me, the two prone bodies surrounded by shards of rotting lumber and old shingles. For sure I hated having a hole in my roof, but deep down inside a little voice said,
See, jackass, that's what I'm going to do about it
. I added a thumbs-up gesture and toothy grin and that was good except for the reporters below snapping more pictures. This was clearly one of those
always wear clean underwear
moments that your mother warned you about. You put on something crappy with stains and you're going to get caught . . . I was now living proof.

More pounding came from my front door as BW and I ducked back inside. I could call the police, except for the little fact that the police and I weren't exactly on the best of terms at the moment and I didn't have a phone. I pulled on a T-shirt and jeans, ran a comb through my hair and a
toothbrush around my mouth, and then flew downstairs with BW trotting right behind me. “Are you ready for your fifteen minutes of fame?” I warned BW.

He wagged his tail harder and added a bark that I took as a yes, so I tore open the door to cameras snapping and videos whirling.

“Where's Walker Boone?” one reporter asked, followed by, “Why did you help him escape?” Another added, “Why did he kill Conway Adkins?”

Oh yeah, this was the way I wanted to start the day . . . except maybe it
was
 . . . sort of. “Look,” I said, holding up my hands surrender-style. “I don't know where Walker Boone is.” Least that part was true enough. “I just want to see that no-good scalawag behind bars. He represented my ex in our divorce, and all I got out of the deal was this run-down house.” I pointed to the hole in the roof. “Now it's my turn to see Boone sweat, and I'm loving it.”

“Don't hand me that line of bull,” camo guy grunted, favoring his left leg. “You and Walker Boone have worked on the same cases; I've seen you around.”

“He's an attorney; our paths cross and he gets in my way a lot and I usually have to end up saving his sorry miserable behind.” Hey, if I'm going to lie I should make it a humdinger, right? “I have no use for Boone other than to see him behind bars and end up being on the short end of the stick for a change. That's why I took his car when I realized he was on the run. It's my turn to be the winner. What's he going to do about it, report the car stolen to the cops? That jerk owes me.”

“I think you're lying,” the second guy who fell through
the roof said, a lump forming over his right eye. “You two are an item and you're sleeping together.”

“You're kidding, right? You saw my Hello Kitty nightshirt. Not exactly
come and get it, big boy
lingerie.”

The guys nodded in agreement and I added, “I'm doing all that I can to find Boone and get him convicted for murdering Conway Adkins. In fact, if you all hear where he is or anything about the murder I'd appreciate you letting me know. I'd like to go laugh in his face.” Then I slammed the door shut and hoped to heck my big old lies took root.

I peeked out the front display window, which at present featured a blue pencil skirt and tan blouse with a cute cross-body bag. The cars and vans pulled away from the curb—yay for that—as Auntie KiKi scurried across her lovely front lawn that butted up to my front weed patch. Her hair was still done up in rollers, but the green face goop was gone.

“What in the world is going on now?” she asked as she shuffled up the steps in fluffy slippers. “I heard cars and a crash. How can I get my beauty rest with this racket around here?”

I nodded at the roof and pointed to the debris of the porch. “New skylight. The press was here.” I pointed to the roof. “And they were even up there. I fed them the same baloney about Boone that I dished out to Tucker.”

“The press? Sweet mother, you think they bought it?”

“I'm not exactly living in the lap of luxury here, so the part about the rotten divorce and getting taken to the cleaners rings true enough.”

KiKi sat down on the top step and we watched BW do his morning ritual of sniff and water the lawn. KiKi plopped
her chin in her palm, closing her eyes. “I need a martini,” she mumbled.

“It's six in the morning, not at night!”

“Well, I'll be.” KiKi's eyes shot wide open. “See, this is what happens when I go to bed late and wake up early; my internal clock is on the fritz. Maybe Cakery Bakery has a martini-flavored doughnut and that'll take care of both of the sixes at once. Be ready in ten, we're on a mission.”

Not waiting for an answer, KiKi headed for her house, and a few minutes later, sans bathrobe, she backed the Beemer down the drive. BW took the rear seat and I claimed shotgun. Leaving BW home during a doughnut run was never going to happen. Some dogs could sniff drugs, some found missing people, and some even sensed heart attacks. BW's special gift was a doughnut run. He could feel the vibes in the air when fried chunks of yummy pastry were just around the corner.

KiKi hung a right onto Abercorn as the sun was just peeking through the live oaks. We watched Savannah come to life with the usual morning rituals of getting the paper, walking the dog, catching the bus, drinking Starbucks, and putting on makeup while driving. KiKi found a parking space a block away from the bakery, and we followed BW, his doggie nose hot on the doughnut scent.

“Mercy me, there's a line?” KiKi gasped when we got to the green storefront with a cupcake etched on the glass double doors. We walked past the little white tables littering the sidewalk for al fresco carb indulging, then went inside.

“What in the world is everyone doing up at this hour?” KiKi huffed as we passed the customers sitting in wire-frame
sweetheart chairs with matching marble-top tables. A ceiling light decorated with gingerbread cookies added to the delicious ambiance of the bakery, and a cupcake clock on the far wall ticked off the minutes. I swear I gained two pounds just surveying the décor. KiKi beelined for the display cases in the back, and her dismay over the crowd quickly gave way to the lure of things round, fried, and filled. She pressed her nose to the glass. “So many doughnuts,” she murmured, a bit dreamy. “So little time.”

“You! Reagan Summerside! Get out of my shop,” a voice called from behind me.

I spun around to face GracieAnn Harlow, the new owner of the Cakery Bakery. GracieAnn had gone pleasantly to plump as all bakery owners should, least in my opinion. She had on a pink dress, the Cakery Bakery uniform, and a white apron with an order pad and pencil stuck in the front pocket. GracieAnn was such a kidder these days, always poking fun and having a laugh . . . least that was what I thought till I got hit in the forehead with a raspberry truffle doughnut covered in a chocolate drizzle.

“Get out!” GracieAnn pointed to the door as drips of raspberry trailed down my nose.

“Excuse me?”

“Out!”

“But . . . but we're friends,” I said. “We're buds. I rescued you, remember. And I'm one of your best customers.” I stuck out my tongue and captured a drizzle. “What's this all about?”

GracieAnn pursed her mouth tight, her green eyes little slits. “For the record, it was Walker Boone, that darling
hunka-hunka man, who rescued me, and you're nothing but a traitor, a Judas, a double-crossing hypocrite. I saw the morning news on TV.” She pointed to a TV in the corner, as everyone in the shop nodded in agreement. “We all heard what you said. You want Boone behind bars!” A bear claw filled with vanilla custard went splat across my chest.

“You got this all wrong. I can explain.”

“We heard what we heard,” GracieAnn added, and the ticked-off looks on the other customers' faces suggested that if I didn't leave on my own they'd help me along.

I leaned across the counter and hooked my finger at GracieAnn to do the same. “I just said what I did to get Boone's enemies to talk to me so I can find the real killer,” I whispered, our noses inches apart.

GracieAnn's eyes got beady. “You'd say anything for a doughnut.”

“Okay, I can't argue that, but I'm not lying.” I did the cross-over-my-heart routine.

“Hit the bricks.”

“Not even one glazed to see me on my way?”

“Out!” GracieAnn's breath smelled of vanilla and cinnamon. I inhaled the scent of secondhand doughnut as GracieAnn glared at Auntie KiKi. “And what about you?”

KiKi studied the full display case and smacked her lips. BW fused himself to her leg and KiKi pointed to me. “I never saw that woman in my life and neither did this dog and that's our story and we're sticking to it and we'll take two crullers, four sprinkles, and a coffee and a water to go, thank you very much.”

When it came to doughnuts and family loyalty, doughnuts
won every time. Picking chunks of bear claw off my shirt, I plopped them into my mouth and headed for the door. I sat at one of the shaded little white tables on the sidewalk and waited for KiKi to come out. One of those sprinkle doughnuts she ordered better have my name on it.

“Lord have mercy, girl, what do you think you're doing?” Mercedes said as she hustled up to the table and wedged herself into the tiny wrought-iron chair across from me. Mercedes was housekeeper extraordinaire by day and mortician beautician by night, meaning not much happened in this city without her getting wind of it. She drove a pink Caddy and dressed right out of Nordstrom's catalog. Sprucing things up living or dead paid a heck of a lot better than running a consignment shop.

“Honey,” she said to me. “Are you trying to get yourself killed, and if you are you need to be touching up your roots for when they find your sorry carcass. What's it going to be? Blonde? Brunette? Make a choice, 'cause right now you look skunk and you need better clothes. You run a nice consignment shop, for Pete's sake.”

“I can't afford my consignment shop.”

“I declare, girl, how do you keep getting into these messes?”

“So are we talking about that fire out at the lumberyard a few months ago, or when that house exploded and I sort of lost my eyebrows, or when I drove into the marsh with the alligators, or—”

“I'm talking about today, this very morning. You were on the news, big as you please. That's how I knew you were here having doughnuts at the Cakery Bakery . . . where else would you go at this hour?”

“So, besides the roots and nightshirt, did I look all that bad?”

“You looked like we should be measuring you for a coffin.” Mercedes let out a long-suffering sigh. “You know Mr. Boone has friends, mighty good friends like me, who won't be taking kindly to that crack about wanting to put the man behind bars.”

“I got a plan.”

“We'll be sure to put that in your obituary.”

“Detective Ross said I had to act like I was anti-Boone so the suspects wouldn't clam up when I started snooping around. If they suspected I was out to find the real killer I'd get nowhere fast.”

“Did you ever stop to consider the little fact that you're not going to get any help from the pro-Boone camp, and that includes Big Joey, Pillsbury, and the Seventeenth Street boys? My guess is that particular group's hunting you down this very minute. You need to straighten them out before you're on the receiving end of more than flying doughnuts.” Mercedes swiped a glob of custard from my chin just as Auntie KiKi and BW pranced out of the bakery with a piled-high tray of goodies, having obviously seen Mercedes out here with me.