Demise in Denim (3 page)

Without saying a word we set out the coffee and split the doughnut collection, and I put BW's portion on the tray on the sidewalk. Simultaneously we all selected a portion of the sprinkle variety and savored the moment. It was the good-friends-plus-pup way of doing things around here.

Mercedes licked icing off her thumb and looked at me. “Okay, now that we're sugared and caffeinated, we need to
be thinking about who did in Conway and we need to be doing it quick before the cops find Mr. Boone. The man won't go peaceful, we all know that, and it would be a crying shame if something happened to his fine self. He sure does offer up some nice eye candy around here.”

KiKi added another packet of sugar to the coffee just in case three packets weren't enough. “If you want my opinion, Tucker Adkins gets top billing after breaking into Reagan's house last night.”

Mercedes dropped her doughnut in her coffee. “Sweet mother. Why would he do such a thing?”

KiKi took a nibble of her cinnamon twist. “He says he's looking to avenge his daddy dearest and put Boone in jail, but he's more interested in the jail part than the daddy part, I can promise you that.”

Mercedes spooned her doughnut out of her coffee. “I know the maid over there at Lillibridge House. I help her clean on occasion when she gets overworked or they got a party going on. She told me that Tucker and his daddy were never close. Fact is, she said Conway got along better with Steffy Lou than he ever did with his own son. Tucker was a mamma's boy, never worked a day in his life and walked off with a nice chunk of change when his mamma died. The thing is, after she died Conway told Tucker about Walker being his other son and he didn't take it well at all.”

I stopped a sprinkle doughnut halfway to my mouth. “‘Didn't take it well' in that he'd kill him?”

Mercedes fed a chunk of doughnut to BW, his head in her lap. BW knew how to play a crowd. “Tucker Adkins likes nothing more than easy money and the good life. I
can't see the man risking jail over a half-brother he never knew he had. He might go ballistic and pitch a fit, but murder's not his style, best I can tell.”

She hunched across the table, drawing us all close. “But I got another idea. I've been thinking maybe those gold-digger sisters did in Conway. Anna and Bella had me on the phone last night making sure I put both their names on my clean and casket list. I only got so many openings, and they know if they get me to do their houses now I'll take special care of their husbands when they get over to Eternal Slumber, which those two are hoping occurs right soon. It's what happens when feisty twenty-somethings marry rich eighty-somethings. Seems like a mighty big coincidence that with Conway dead and Boone on the run, two spots came available with neither of the octogenarian boys in the best of health, from what I hear.”

KiKi sipped her coffee and nodded. “And we all know that this being Savannah, there's nothing more important than a proper funeral no matter who's doing the dying, planned or otherwise.”

“Waitaminute,” I said. “You really think Anna and Bella would knock off Conway and frame Walker to get Mercedes to clean for them?”

“And bury their husbands proper when the time came so they wouldn't get talked about,” Mercedes said. “Their grandma Annabelle was married three times, all to rich old men who wound up out at Bonaventure within two years of saying
I do
. Anna and Bella are legacy gold-diggers.”

“And maybe killers,” KiKi chimed in. “I'd say those two are worth a look-see. Besides, and I hate to say it, we have
no one else on our who-killed-Conway list.” KiKi let out a deep sigh, polished off her coffee, snagged a napkin and flicked glaze off her peach blouse, and then checked her watch. “I got a cha-cha lesson with Bernard Thayer at nine. Mr. Savannah Weather is determined to get on
Dancing with the Stars
this year or bust a gut trying. Least he pays double, and I got my eye on a Gucci purse on eBay.”

“And I have a Tuesday house to clean,” Mercedes offered. “Then I'm heading over to the Slumber and take care of Conway as soon as the police release the body, and get him gussied up for the layout tomorrow. I owe him since I cleaned his place all these years. It's going to take a mountain of putty to fill in that there hole between his beady little eyes. Getting shot with a .38 is nasty business, goes in like a BB and comes out like a potato. You should attend the funeral,” Mercedes said to me as KiKi and I stopped eating our last doughnut thanks to the potato comment.

“Odds are good the killer will be there,” Mercedes went on. “He'll want to be checking out his handiwork and it's a fine time to step up your anti-Walker campaign if you really think it'll work. You best be letting Big Joey and the boys in on your plan, and the sooner the better for your own good health, if you get my drift.”

Mercedes headed off in one direction and KiKi in the other to collect the Beemer. I hitched Old Yeller onto my shoulder, and BW and I started across Broughton toward Seventeenth Street. We crossed MLK and the large perfectly restored Savannah houses gave way to smaller ones with faded paint and AC units perched in front windows, where few residents had the need to lay out and tan as theirs was hereditary.

This was Big Joey territory, with Pillsbury the doughboy who managed the corporate money as second in command. The Seventeenth Street gang took care of their own and a few others along the way. They had a nice investment portfolio and a terrific health care plan that I could attest to, as they had graciously folded me into their system. I was tolerated in the land of not belonging mostly because I knew Boone and my crime-solving skills bordered on amusement and curiosity. None of that counted for squat today, proven by the fact that I had three of the boys following me, and from the looks on their faces this was not a welcoming committee.

I stepped up my pace, and the boys did the same. I spotted the two pink myrtle trees that any Savannah gardener worth his blooms would salivate over, trotted up the steps, and knocked on the screen door.

“I hear you be looking for trouble,” Big Joey said when he answered the door. He started to close it, but BW wiggled his way inside, looking for his usual treat as if all were normal.

“It's not what you think,” I blurted to Big Joey and the boys. “I'm trying to find Conway's killer by acting like I want to get even with Boone for messing me in over my divorce. Here's my plan: If I give the impression I'm anti-Boone, I'll find others who have it in for him and maybe I'll find out who set him up. Got any ideas?”

Big Joey stepped out onto the porch as my escorts closed in from the back. I felt like an Oreo cookie.

“You took his car,” Big Joey growled.

“Hey, he took my new pink scooter.”

This brought smiles all around, and the ominous atmosphere shattered. Guess pink-scooter topics of conversation didn't come up all that often in the hood. Big Joey folded his muscled ebony arms across his chest and leaned against the porch post. “Sorry I missed that. Any idea where he be?” Big Joey asked, as my escorts ambled off.

“My guess is Boone will steer clear of friends in case he gets caught. He wouldn't want to drag us into any trouble with the police,” I said. “Maybe he'll look me up once my
I hate Walker Boone
campaign gets going.”

“That idea's never going to happen with that dopey look on your face, babe.”

“I'm trying for revenge mixed with loathing.”

“Try harder.”

“So I've heard.”

“You chill, the boys and I got this.”

“Except you really don't,” I tried to reason. “Look, we have to work together. You can get into places I can't, and I can get to places you can't. Besides, I got another interest in this. I need the money. Conway Adkins was right in the middle of redecorating and he promised to consign his furniture with me. I had buyers lined up for his cherry dining room set and living room couch, cash in hand, ready to go, and then Conway goes and gets himself polished off.”

“Thoughtless.”

“I want to solve this case to get the crime scene tape off Conway's house so I can get my furniture and buy a car of my very own.”

Big Joey let out a deep sigh.

“Hey, I'm a terrific driver.”

This brought a smile, confirming my entertainment status. “Bus be good.”

“I like cup holders.”

“Later, babe.”

BW and I headed for home: the Prissy Fox, a far trot from the land of brotherly love. Depending on the bus driver and if I happened to have a sandwich bribe from Zunzi's, I could sometimes pass BW off as a furry child with leash and hitch a ride. Most of the time puppo was a big no-no. See, this was exactly why I needed a car, a nondiscriminatory mode of transportation.

Duh, I had a car! I had Boone's car! I didn't take it last night because the press would follow in hot pursuit. But now that that particular ship had sailed, there was no reason to hide. I might have a hole in my porch roof, but I also had a '57 Chevy convertible at my disposal. Seemed like a pretty fair trade since Boone had my
scooter.

“T
HIS
was a really good idea,” I said to BW as I pulled the Chevy to a stop, letting a band of tourists cross State Street to get to Oglethorpe Square. Adam Levine sang to me from the radio and a hot twenty-something guy gave me a wink. A sassy poodle on a pink leash shook her pompom tail at BW and added a
hey, big
boy
yap. “You got to admit,” I said to BW. “This kind of stuff never happened to us on a bus.”

Tail wagging, BW sat up a little straighter, not taking his eyes off the poodle. “Don't get any ideas, big boy.”

BW leaned farther over the edge of the door, tongue hanging out, salivating, lust in his eyes. Men—two-legged or four, they were all the same when it came to shaking pompoms. I continued down Abercorn and tossed my head, letting my hair float out into the breeze, followed by wolf
whistles from the two guys overhead working on the phone lines. All this was because I had the right car? It sure wasn't from my two-toned roots.

I pulled my last Snickers from my purse—one that I'd been saving for a special occasion—and very carefully, so as not to get any chocolate on the white upholstery, split it with BW. I guided the Chevy around back of Cherry House and bid the lovely Adam farewell till next time. Keeping the car idling, I opened the garage door, lugged a ladder off to the side, and dragged an old grill out of the way to make room for the newest occupant.

I unsnapped the boot used to cover the convertible top when it was down, then carefully raised it and locked it in place. I slowly maneuvered my—least for a bit it was mine—sexmobile inside and killed the engine.

My last car of two-plus years ago was a cute little used hatchback named Blueberry. Hollis got the Lexus because he sold real estate and he insisted he had to look successful to be successful. Blueberry got great gas mileage and was cheap to insure and a breeze to park even in the tightest of places, but in the ten minutes that it took me to drive from the police station to my house the Chevy got more attention than little ol' Blueberry ever did. I locked the garage, and BW and I strutted ourselves inside to get the Prissy Fox ready for the day.

I pulled on my usual shop garb of black capris and a white blouse, clipped my hair back, and swiped on some mascara and lip gloss as BW watched me from his new favorite spot out in the hall. We went downstairs and I got the cash from the safe, also known as the rocky road ice
cream container in the freezer. I transferred the money to the cash register—also known as the Godiva chocolate box sans chocolate, but it still smelled great when I made a sale.

I flipped the lights on and turned on my little radio to WRHQWR105, the quality rock station, hoping to hear more Adam Levine. I kept the volume low as background music and then opened the front door.

“'Bout time,” a blonde gal in Saks' finest huffed as she and her clone bustled inside the shop. “You know how long I've been waiting out there on that miserable porch with the hole in the roof? Ten whole minutes. What kind of shop is this?”

One that doesn't open till ten and right now it's nine thirty
, I thought to myself. Not that I said that out loud, as the customer is always right . . . even if they can't tell time or read the hours posted on the door. “Are you shopping for something in particular that I can help with?” I asked in my sweet-shop-owner voice.

Four eyes rounded and clone one gasped, “You think
we
shop at a secondhand store?” They exchanged looks, sighs, and shoulder rolls all at the same time, as if rehearsed. Clone two thrust a list at me. “We're here on business. There are a lot of men's clothes here, nice ones. How much will I get for them, and I'll need them sold right quick.”

“These are good brands, but men's clothes don't move as fast as women's. It will take a month, maybe two.”

“See, Anna,” clone two said to clone one as she hitched her Prada bag up onto her shoulder. “I told you so. This isn't going to work. You need something else to tide you over till the lawyers settle the estate and you get the money free and clear.”

Clone one tapped her foot. “That means I'll just have to live off the credit cards? But a girl needs cash; it's not proper for her not to have cash in hand. What will people think if I have to fork over a credit card all the time? This is a disgrace, Bella. What am I going to do?”

Anna? Bella? The gold-digger sisters?

“I'm so sorry about your husband's passing,” I offered.

“Oh, honey,” Bella huffed. “He's not dead . . . yet. But a girl's got to be prepared for these things if they should come her way unexpected-like. I'm just getting affairs in order for when the time comes sooner or later.”

“And we are so hoping and praying for the sooner part,” Anna added.

“Fact is, we're off to see Odilia right now on how we can hurry the situation along a bit,” Bella said.

“He's critical and you don't want him to suffer?”

“Things are critical all right, and I'm doing the suffering.” Anna tsked, her face pulling into a frown. “I cannot believe that Walker Boone person tried to convince our husbands to change their wills like he did and make our inheritance proportional to years married. Of all the nerve! What if they go and do such a thing? How dare that man stick his nose into our business? He so deserves to be behind bars.”

Two customers came in to shop and Anna added in a low voice, “That's why we came here to talk to you. We saw you on the morning news and realized you dislike that no-good, low-rent, middle-Georgia Boone person as much as we do. I could cut the man's heart out with a spoon, I could, and it's a darn shame too with him being so fine and delicious
to look at. One glance at that man and a girl wants to sink her teeth into his tight little butt. So you can take the clothes, right?”

I was still back at Boone's butt.

“I'll bring the clothes over when dear Clive passes on so you can get them right out on the floor fast and sold quick-like.”

The sisters trotted out the front door and down the sidewalk as Mercedes came in the back door. Her hair was always soft and sleek and her makeup perfect, and the peach pashmina draped around her shoulders accented her dark skin perfectly. I wanted to be Mercedes when I grew up.

“What in the world were the gold-digger sisters doing here?” she asked. “Those two gals are not exactly the consignment-shop type.”

“They're inquiring about selling men's clothes.”

Mercedes stopped dead. “Holy Mary in heaven. Well, there you go. Those two got plans and it's not where to spend their next anniversary. Think we should warn the poor unfortunates married to them? It only seems fitting that we do something.”

“‘Your wife's planning to knock you off' may not go over too well, but they are paying a visit to Odilia right now to speed things up.” We both made the sign of the cross at the mention of the local voodoo priestess, who knew how to get the job done. Nine months ago Wanda Fleming went to Odilia because her daughter wasn't getting pregnant. Last week she delivered triplets.

“I knew it,” Mercedes said, slapping her palm on my checkout counter, which was actually an old green
paint-chipped door I had found in the attic and laid across the backs of two chairs. “It's like I figured all along. Anna and Bella are prime suspects in this mess with Conway, and if they're planning on their very own husbands' demise, doing in Conway and framing Walker for the deed is a piece of cake, don't you think? It's a perfect fit.”

“They did mention Boone and it wasn't to sing his praises, except for his butt. But how would they get hold of Boone's .38?”

“Honey, every woman in Savannah praises that man's fine behind, and the fact that Mr. Walker keeps a .38 in his desk drawer is legendary. Word has it that someone used it to put a bullet right into his wood-paneled office, of all things. Do you believe that?”

I did the big swallow. Actually I did believe it 'cause I sort of did the shooting.

“But the reason I came over is I got news,” Mercedes said. She came around to the back of the counter and whispered, “I was fixing up Conway to ‘Stayin' Alive,' that being my favorite fix-up music and all. I was taking my time, making him look real good, and lo and behold if some guy didn't barge right into the room big as you please. He pulled out a carving knife and stabbed Conway right in the heart. I mean, the man's already dead as a post, for Pete's sake. How much deader can he get and now I got another hole to fill in, like I didn't have enough work from the .38 and it messed up the embalming something fierce. Some people have no consideration.”

“‘Stayin' Alive'?”

“The Bee Gees.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Folk are already croaked when we get 'em, nothing much more can happen to them, right? The Slumber is not exactly a flashing-lights-and-sirens sort of establishment. We're more into lilies and ferns and hankies and tea and cookies and ‘Doesn't he look good for a dead guy.' I have no idea who the man was, but I thought you needed to know we got ourselves another suspect. I mean, if the guy's ready to kill Conway when he's dead, I figure he could have done the deed when Conway was up and kicking. There's pissed off, and then there's really and truly pissed off, and stabber guy fits the second category, wanting to make sure the deed is done for real.”

Mercedes did the impatient shuffle as I rang up a sale for the strappy sandals I'd had my eye on and the cute cross-body bag out of the display window. She waited for the woman to leave, then said to me, “I bet dollars to doughnuts that the stabbing guy will be at Conway's funeral. You truly do need to get there and bring Miss KiKi with you; she knows everyone.”

“I hate funerals.”

“Honey”—Mercedes put her arm around me—“the only ones who like funerals are those who inherit the loot, the florists, and the funeral director. But the way I see it, at least we got ourselves another suspect.”

Mercedes hustled herself off to putty Conway back together, and three customers brought clothes in to consign. I went through the stacks, selected which items worked for the store, and then tagged and priced them and put them on the racks. By one o'clock I'd sold three skirts, two jackets,
four pairs of shoes, and a really ugly coat that I thought I'd never get rid of. I also sold three black dresses thanks to Conway's funeral. Maybe I needed to rethink my view on funerals; they weren't so bad after all.

I really could do with a mannequin, I decided as I assembled a new window display of skinny jeans, white sweater, and straw hat. A mannequin would look better than the hangers in the window, that's for sure. I hung the clothes, adding a cute chair and table to complete the display look as BW ambled out the door to greet Chantilly hurrying up the walk.

Chantilly was a true friend and once-upon-a-time UPS driver. She was now chief cook and bottle washer over at Cuisine by Rachelle, she made the best mac and cheese on earth, and she was engaged to Pillsbury, the Seventeenth Street gang doughboy. That meant she had someone to cuddle up to at night and to invest her hard-earned money, and there was always good food in the house. Chantilly was one fine cook.

“Here's that mac and cheese you ordered for lunch,” Chantilly said to me, setting a white paper bag on the counter. She shuffled back to the door, cutting her eyes in one direction, then the other.

“Ordered?”

“Just open the blasted bag.”

“But I didn't—”

“Eat!”

When it came to mac and cheese I didn't have to be coaxed, like with broccoli and carrots. “Looking for someone?” I asked, since Chantilly was still standing at the door.

The cops
, she mouthed. Okay, this was getting curiouser
and curiouser. I opened the bag, pulled out a spork and cup, pried off the lid, and dug into the best three-cheese combo in the city. It even had those little toasted breadcrumbs sprinkled on top and—

“Napkin!” Chantilly yelped, pointing to the bag. “You need a napkin. Your mamma would have a hissy if she saw you not using your napkin!”

Three customers and I stared at Chantilly as if she'd clearly lost her ever-loving mind over a napkin. The South was all about manners, but this was over-the-top etiquette even for Savannah. I put down the container and carefully plucked the napkin from the bag. I did a little shake to fluff it open, and right there in the middle was writing.
Stay away from Dixon, stay out of my house, no eating in the car.

“A mutual mac-and-cheese lover,” Chantilly offered, still gazing out the door.

“And you're worried that someone might be onto your message service?”

“Crossed my mind. I think you're supposed to take the napkin seriously.”

I jabbed my spork at a big empty space in the hallway. “Right over there is where Conway's dining room set and living room furniture belong. I have customers waiting to see that furniture, money in hand, and I have a big fat hole in my roof. I'm not staying out of anything. I'll try not to eat in the car, but if I happen to drive past Sisters and BW feels a fried chicken urge coming on, I can't deny BW, now can I?”