Demise in Denim (9 page)

If I told her that Boone had suddenly materialized at KiKi's and we'd danced in the dark, Mamma would think I was drunk or crazy or both. “He's close, I can feel it.”

Mamma did a little shuffle and glanced around the room as if Walker would pop out between the dresses. “You always did have good instincts, except when it came to marrying Hollis, of course. I chalk that one up to your daddy's
side of the family. A few of them have the lights on but nobody's home, if you know what I mean. But I didn't come here to just drop off food and discuss genetic flaws; I have inside information.”

Two customers strolled in and Mamma came around to the back of the checkout counter and faked being busy by adding the navy scarf I just took off her to a black sweater. There was no hope. “Mr. TA is contesting his daddy's will,” she said in a hushed voice. “I heard it straight from the estate lawyer this morning over breakfast at Clary's. TA is going for diminished capacity. That means he's saying Daddy Dear was off his nut when he drew up the will. Can you imagine saying such a thing about your own father? And in case you doubted just how much he hates his brother, he told everyone at the grave site yesterday that he'd rot in hell before he'd let his daddy's killer get the Old Harbor Inn.”

“Clary's? You went to Clary's for breakfast? I just bet you got The Elvis and how could you not bring me some? I love The Elvis.”

Mamma nudged the box. “I brought you good food.”

“Sourdough toast stuffed with peanut butter and bananas is good food.” I let out a forlorn sigh. “So, do you think TA just said all that stuff to show off in front of a crowd? I mean, he does like being front and center, even standing by an open grave with a hearse in the background.”

Mamma added an orange scarf to a red sweater, and I felt my eyes cross and heard a customer suck in a sharp breath clear across the room. “Shooting off his mouth could be part of it,” Mamma said. “Personally I'd go with good-old-fashioned greed since the inn's a fine piece of property.
The thing is everyone knows that TA inherited family money, a lot of it from what I hear. Maybe he just wants the inn because he can't have it. The man's like a two-year-old with a bank account and driver's license.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to put some pieces together. “We know who gets the inn, we've known that for a while now. But I wonder who inherits the money? Here's the thing, if TA is going after that person too, this isn't just about brotherly un-love. Maybe TA's not as well off as we all think he is? We really need to see the will, find this other person who gets the money and see if TA has been rattling their cage as well as hating our favorite lawyer. When is there a reading of the will?”

“That only happens on bad TV reruns, dear. These days the attorney files the will in probate court, then sends copies to each of the beneficiaries.”

I snagged Old Yeller from under the counter and dumped the contents onto the counter. Mamma watched in grim fascination as purse flotsam of pens, half-eaten mints, dog biscuits, three combs, a wallet, a flashlight, some rope, and three Snickers wrappers bounced across the top along with the assortment of Boone's mail. Mamma picked up a flyer that gave five dollars off at Vinnie Van Go-Go's pizza. She wagged her head. “Is nothing sacred?”

“Don't know if I'd jump right to sacred, but Vinnie's calzones are pretty freaking awesome.”

“I mean messing with someone else's mail.” Mamma waved the flyer in the air.

“Think of it as a public service. Boone's mailbox was stuffed full and spilling out all over his porch, and we
collected it so the place didn't look unoccupied like no one was home for days, but actually we were too late because someone was already there and—”

Mamma eyes widened. “We?”

“Let's go with me and BW taking a night walk and winding up at Boone's house. But this mail isn't really mail—I mean look at it, it's nothing but ads,” I said, hurrying on to avoid more questions. “There's nothing like a bill or bank statement, and there's no big thick
here is the will
envelope. Where the heck could it be?”

“Let's see,” Mamma said, pairing green earrings with a purple necklace so it looked like we were doing work. “The funeral was yesterday, so out of respect I'm guessing the lawyers waited till this morning to file the will over at the courthouse. Copies of it will probably be sent out to the beneficiaries by courier this afternoon.”

“But the courier won't go to Boone's house,” I said, looking at the pile in front of me. “Where do you think Boone's real mail is? Where does he have that delivered?”

“His office,” Mamma and I said together. “Dinky can sign for the envelope,” I added. “Then we can get it from her. Dinky and I are friends.”

Mamma shook her head. “Doesn't matter if you two are joined at the hip, dear. Dinky can't sign for the envelope; she's not Walker, and as we know he's MIA at the moment. No Walker, no will; the courier will simply take it back to the estate attorney and try again at a later date. The law is pretty specific on how wills are handled.”

“Or maybe Boone's not really MIA after all,” I said, feeling a lightbulb moment coming on. “Maybe Boone's
right in his office and just a little shorter now and doesn't have facial hair and he's blond.”

“Blond?”

“I bet Boone would look great blond, and maybe he's wearing a hat. A hat would help. What do you think? It worked pretty good last time I tried it.” I scooped everything back into Old Yeller. “Quick, call KiKi and tell her to watch the shop.”

“What if she has a dance lesson?”

“Tell her to teach it over here. Everyone will love it, a little hip-hop while they shop; it even rhymes and there's enough room right here in the hallway.”

Mamma rubbed her forehead. “Are you doing what I think you're doing?”

I grabbed a men's suit off the rack, along with a shirt, a tie, and a brown straw fedora I'd just taken in. “Put your hands over your eyes, Mamma, you don't want to get involved in this. You are a judge, after all.”

Mamma took my hand. She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, her eyes softening. “Grandma Hilly cleaned offices down at the courthouse for years; we were friends. If our roles were reversed I'd like to think she'd keep an eye on you and lend a hand. We'll meet up tonight at Jen's and Friends and you can tell me how things go. Try not to get arrested and if you do, dear, don't admit to anything. That diminished-capacity idea might not work for Conway, but you trying to pass yourself off as Walker Boone fits the bill pretty
well.”

I
PARKED
the Chevy, snagged the suit, shirt, and fedora out of the backseat, and locked the car. I took off in a dead run for Boone's office, the suit streaming behind me like a kite. It was already after noon and the envelope with Conway's last will and testament might be delivered anytime now.

Boone's office was a white-stone two-story. It was over a hundred years old with an elevated entrance designed for the horse-and-dirt-street days and keeping dust and grime at bay. The office faced Columbia Square and was next to the Kehoe House, now a terrific bed-and-breakfast and haunted for the last century by the Kehoe twins. Some kids can't wait to leave home; others you just can't get rid of.

I took the stone steps and pushed open the frosted glass door with “Walker H. Boone, Attorney at Law” stenciled
on the front. Dinky sat behind her big mahogany desk littered with yellow legal pads, a laptop, a cell phone, an array of baby pictures, and a bouquet of plastic flowers that was really a stapler. She had a box of tissues in front of her and was crying her eyes out.

“Sweet mother, what's wrong?” I asked, rushing over. “Look, if this is about Alfonzo and the pygmies, I think he signed the contract, so all's well.”

She looked up at me and sniffed. “What are you talking about?”

“What are you crying about?” Dinky and I were about the same age and friends since my divorce from Hollis, with Boone being his attorney. Dinky had held my hand during some tough times, tried to convince me things would get better and that I really shouldn't strangle her boss because she needed the job. We bonded over lattes and gossip, and I ended up being a bridesmaid in her wedding.

“Everything's wrong,” Dinky wailed, getting up and pacing across the blue Oriental rug in her office. “Mr. Boone is accused of murder and an Officer Deckard was just here asking me a million questions. Does he really think I know where Mr. Boone is or that I'd tell him if I did? Then Steffy Lou Adkins was here looking for the permits for that Tybee Theater event. Least I found those for her.”

Dinky sobbed louder. “Poor Steffy Lou, trying to do this all by herself; poor Mr. Boone; and poor, poor me. He's on the run for his life, Steffy Lou is overworked, and it's payday around here and I'm not getting paid one red cent.”

“We need to fix the Boone-on-the-run part, least for a few minutes, and we need to do it fast.” I held up the suit.
“I have to fake being Boone so I can sign for an envelope that's to be delivered here any minute now.”

Dinky swiped at her tears, a smile breaking through. “Really? If you can sign for an envelope for Mr. Boone, you can surely sign his checks, right? I've got a car payment due.”

“I can't sign Boone's checks.”

“I can't lose my car.”

“Look. Any minute now a courier's going to come trotting in here and you've got to help pass me off as Boone,” I said while yanking on the pants to the suit. With my foot caught in one leg, I hobbled over to the window and peered down at the sidewalk. “I figure it'll be a bike courier.”

“You mean Donald?” Dinky said. “I think he's got a crush on me.”

“Young and muscles and hunky?”

“Seventies, dentures, spindle legs. I can sign for a package, no sweat, I do it all the time for Mr. Boone. The mail guys all know me.”

“It's got to be Boone in the flesh or as close as we can get in a pinch.” I pulled on the shirt and buttoned it up. “This is Conway Adkins's will and only Boone can sign for it. You need to distract Donald, make him look at you so he doesn't look too hard at me.”

Dinky folded her arms. “I can add a little lipstick and toss in some sweet talk with the best of them, but I got to tell you that the only way Donald's going to think you're Boone is if he's got a few double shots of bourbon under his belt. Besides, everyone knows Boone's on the lam and not sitting behind his desk looking forty pounds lighter and shrinking.”

I twisted my hair into a bun and slapped on the fedora. “What do you think?”

“You look like a cartoon character.”

“Slut yourself up, undo a few buttons, coochie-coo with Donald, and then slip me the papers.”

“I'm married, I have a kid, Beau will kill me if he finds out, and it's just plain old sneaky.”

I grabbed Dinky by the shoulders and stared her right in the eyes. “Donald's out there parking his bike right this minute.” I pointed down to the sidewalk. “Think car payment. Think repossession if we don't clear Boone. Think bye-bye cute SUV that holds all your baby stuff and hello smelly bus.”

“Bus?”

“Lugging a stroller, changing poopy diapers, waiting in the rain, germs, sneezing slobbering passengers.”

Dinky snagged my comb and flipped up her hair, letting a few sexy tendrils trail around her face, glossed up her lips, and kissed the air to even out the color. She swiped on mascara and undid two, then three, buttons on her blouse as footsteps sounded in the hall. I slid into Boone's wood-paneled office, partially closed the blinds, kept the light off, and parked myself in the big leather chair. Dinky sat on the corner of her desk, legs crossed, skirt hiked up to her behind showing nearly everything she owned. I think “baby on a bus” sent her over the edge.

“Why, Donald, you sexy hunk of mankind,” Dinky purred as the courier came into the office. “How are you this very fine afternoon?”

“It's . . . it's Dan and I'm doing okay, I guess, maybe. I need to see Mr. Boone to sign for a package, even though I
know he's not around, but I have to try to make the delivery anyway and—”

“Nonsense.” Dinky waved her hand in the air and batted her eyes. “Why, Mr. Boone is right in his office working like he always is. He's busy, very busy. That talk about him being on the run is nothing but a nasty rumor.”

“I heard it on the police scanner.”

Dinky pointed through the half-open door to me, then slinked off the desk. “See, he's right there.” She strutted over to Dan and turned his face away from the door to her. “Now tell me what you've been up to, you handsome devil. I'll have Mr. Boone sign these and we can talk.”

Dan gripped the envelope tighter. “I can't—”

Dinky flattened herself against Dan and whispered something in his ear as she grabbed the lapel of his blue uniform and led him into the office. I lowered my head and picked up the phone, and with the fedora pulled low my face was pretty well hidden. “Habeas corpus, corpus delicti, Magna Carta, tiramisu,” I groused into the phone for good measure.

“I thought he was taller,” Dan whispered to Dinky, her hand now on his butt.

“He hasn't been taking his vitamins.” Dinky tossed the clipboard and envelope on the desk and slid her arm around Dan, drawing him close to her as I scrawled
Walker H. Boone
on the clipboard beside the date. I'd seen Boone's name scribbled at the bottom of my divorce papers enough times, so I knew his signature.

“How long have you been riding that bike to get all these fine muscles?” Dinky purred.

“Six months. Muscles?”

Dinky slyly ran her other hand though Dan's hair and I handed the clipboard back to her. She waltzed Dan off toward her office area, trapped the clipboard back under his arm, and backed him toward the outer door.

“See you later, handsome.” I heard the soft click of the door closing, and I rushed over to the window and peeked through the half-closed blinds. Dan stood by his bike and looked up, and I jumped back, nearly knocking over the little yellow-and-blue lamp on the table. I peered through the blinds again to see Dan pedaling off and smacking flat into a tree. He got back on his bike, shook his head, and wobbled off again.

“You did it,” I said to Dinky, standing beside me. “You're amazing.”

“What I am is screwed. I've set myself up for more of the same from here on.” Dinky pointed out the window. “Now I have to be all Miss Hotsy-Totsy to Dan every time he shows up or he'll suspect something was up, and what the heck was that about tiramisu?”

“I don't speak legal, but I'm pretty good at dessert, and think of it this way: If what's in this envelope helps us find the killer, Boone will be back at this desk real soon and you can keep your car.”

Dinky picked up a silver letter opener from Boone's desk that looked a lot more Dinky than Boone, meaning it was probably a Christmas or birthday present. She neatly slit the top of the packet while I clicked on the light.

“It's Conway Adkins's will, all right.” Dinky set it on the corner of Boone's desk and flipped through a few pages. “It says here that Walker H. Boone gets the Old Harbor Inn,
the sterling tea service and all jewelry goes to Steffy Lou Adkins, and the bourbon and cigar collection goes to the Plantation Club. The cash assets go to St. Mary's Health Center and Free Clinic over on Drayton.”

“The free clinic? Really? I don't think I've ever heard Conway's name associated with something that would not benefit him in the long run.”

“Well, in my opinion I'd say this was just more of the same. Not that the money to the clinic won't do a whole lot of good for a whole lot of people, but it's what we here in the legal world call bribing the jury. The old boy was making amends before he croaked. The fear of the Lord is a pretty powerful motivator when you got the Pearly Gates on the horizon and the flames of Hades dancing at your feet.”

“Here's what I don't get: Boone's Grandma Hilly had to know that Conway was Boone's dad. Why not hit him up for money or tell Boone and he could go to him for money? They were barely getting by, from what I've heard.”

“Conway didn't want Walker, ever. Why set up the grandson you love for that kind of rejection? I'd say Grandma Hilly thought she was protecting Walker from a greater evil than being poor.” Dinky waved her hand over the office. “And I'd say she was right. The guy did okay for himself, with a little help from his friends.”

“Tucker is contesting the will and the big question is: Is it to just keep Walker from getting the inn, or does he need the cash? If he needs money, maybe that's motive for the murder? Even if Conway left him nothing, he had this contesting-the-will idea up his sleeve.”

Dinky sat quiet for a minute, deep in thought, then slowly
wagged her head. “He just wants the inn. It's a sibling-rivalry thing. Tucker wouldn't go after the free clinic money no matter what. It would ruin his reputation in the community. He owns a big marina out there on Whitemarsh, and no one would support it if he gets a bad reputation. Besides, he's still living large so there's no reason to think he's having money troubles.”

“Can I have a copy of the will?”

Dinky rolled her eyes skyward and made the sign of the cross. “I've broken about ten laws in the last twenty minutes. I'm going to hell for sure.”

“If we figure this out, at least you won't be headed in that particular direction on a bus.”

After I switched back into my regular clothes I picked up the Chevy. I headed for the Fox with a copy of the will tucked in Old Yeller and a promise to say three Hail Marys and three Our Fathers for Dinky's corrupt soul.

The sexmobile and I chalked up more whistles and thumbs-ups and that was terrific, but I also nearly sideswiped an orange trolley coming around a corner and jumped the curb on State Street. The Chevy was a sweet ride, to be sure, but it was big, and Savannah streets were narrow and congested. I'd feel terrible if I dinged Boone's car, mostly because he'd strangle me dead if something happened to it.

When I got to the Fox, KiKi was knee-deep in clothes and three people were waiting in line to get checked out. Anna and Bella were snapping pictures and chatting it up with customers. I didn't have time to ask the dynamic duo what they were up to or even eavesdrop; I was too busy writing up sales and opening new accounts.

“Why did you go over to Boone's?” KiKi wanted to know in a hushed voice when the hubbub died down. She handed me a really cute black-and-white skirt to hang up.

“Have you heard anything about Tucker and his money?” I asked KiKi.

“Only that he spends it like he has his own personal printing press stashed in his attic.” KiKi looked over to Anna and Bella. “Why are they still here? We should start charging them rent. Then again, maybe they're trying to see if we have enough space to sell all the great clothes they intend to bring in?”

I slapped a cheery smile on my face just in case KiKi's theory was right, then walked over to Bella. “Can I help you with something?”

She was stooped over holding a tape measure, with Anna at the other end taking measurements. Or maybe it was Anna doing the holding and Bella taking measurements. They both had their hair pulled back today and both wore black slacks.

“You already have helped tons.” Anna grinned. “More than you know, but then I suppose you really will know soon enough. With Clive and Crenshaw gone, Bella and I have decided to take care of ourselves the way smart women do. We don't have to be dependent on anyone any longer. We are intelligent and resourceful.”