Gone With a Handsomer Man (10 page)

Even if my own true love had shown up at the peach farm, I wouldn’t have known it. The business of running an orchard kept me too busy to notice much of anything. Well, that’s not exactly true; I noticed a lot. When the peach blossoms opened, the air turned pink and hummed with bees. I worked in our roadside stand, a weathered building with a rusty tin roof, and weighed fruit for strangers. During the hot noon hours, I’d close the stand and ride shotgun in Aunt Bluette’s truck, checking the trees. Every season brought dangers: drought, ice, hurricanes, lightning, briars, fungus, birds. A cold snap could send us to the poorhouse. Winter was particularly hard. When the temperature dipped below freezing, Aunt Bluette and I set out smudge pots, and we sprayed the trees with water, hoping the ice would sheath the blossoms. In the summer, we watched the weather report, hoping for rain, but not too much.

My friend Rayette used to beg me to put on a dress and go nightclubbing in Savannah. But I was happy to stay with Aunt Bluette and watch Food Network. I checked out food DVDs at Hollywood Video, and we watched Nigella Lawson. My aunt and I loved Nigella’s unapologetic attitude toward her curves. Aunt Bluette also loved
Iron Chef
and Emeril Lagasse. Each time Emeril said “Bam!” my aunt would make a fist and punch the air.

I was happy we’d had those nights together. I pictured our long gravel drive, the peach trees spread on both sides. Our house had a long front porch with wooden gliders at each end. Inside, our wooden floors were crooked, and if you dropped a marble, it would roll for hours.

My favorite room was the kitchen. A long walnut table with spindly legs sat in the middle of the room. At one end, Aunt Bluette would roll out pie crust, and at the other I would spread out my homework. Our stove had to be lit with a match and gave off the stink of propane. That house was more than a house. It was family, a place where my mother’s smell lingered in crevices and empty drawers.

But it was in Bonaventure and I was here. Soon I’d have to find shelter—a cheap apartment or a furnished room. I could do without cable TV; but I’d have to pay utilities and car insurance, and more important, taxes on the farm. If I couldn’t find a job, I’d have no choice but to sell the Templeton homestead.

If Aunt Bluette were still here, she’d say, “Teeny, do what you have to, baby. And don’t beat yourself up.” But when it came to forgiving myself, I always resisted. I wanted to wallow in postmortems and if-onlys. Oh, how lovely it would be if self-forgiveness was one of man’s basic needs, something we did automatically. Like breathing.

twelve

The next morning a honking car woke me up. I threw back the covers and walked to the window. A horse-drawn carriage moved down East Bay Street. The view was so beguiling, I decided to have coffee up there. Then I remembered Bing’s deadline.

First, I packed my car. Then I looked up Alvin Bell’s number in the phone book. His answering service picked up, and I left a message. I didn’t have a single regret as I locked up the Spencer-Jackson House and walked around the corner to Adgers. My cell phone gave two short trills. I dug it out of my lemon purse and blinked at the text message.

I STILL LOVE U

COME HOME NOW

It was from Bing. But it wasn’t like him to abbreviate “you,” even with texting. I called right back and got his voice mail.

“It’s me,” I said. “What does your message mean? Call me back.”

Next, I called the house. No answer. I thought about texting him but was afraid I’d spell something wrong. I looked down at my outfit. If only I’d worn something ladylike, not baggy cutoff jeans and a Widespread Panic t-shirt.

I turned the car around and drove up East Bay. Did he really want me back or was this another trick? I hated to waste the gas on a wild-goose chase, so before I got to the bridge, I called his office. His secretary said she hadn’t heard from Bing.

I called his house as I turned toward the Ravenel Bridge. I hoped the judge wouldn’t find out, because I wasn’t turning back. I didn’t want to reconcile; I needed to apologize to Bing for hitting him. And I wanted to work out an arrangement to visit Sir.

I passed under the green signs for Isle of Palms and Coleman Blvd/Sullivan’s Island and veered right, toward Mount Pleasant. I dialed Bing’s house again. Now I was starting to worry. Was he playing with me? While I didn’t think he had a bottle of Moët chilling in the fridge, he was up to something. I felt like Bette Davis in
Of Human Bondage
, when she kept wiping off her lover’s kisses. Despite everything, I liked Bing tremendously, but all the champagne and gin joints in the world couldn’t make me take him back. Seeing Coop O’Malley had reminded me what true love felt like.

Gulls flew over Shem Creek as I drove down Coleman Boulevard. I kept dialing Bing’s house until I turned left onto Rifle Range Road. When I drove into the subdivision, I saw the green stucco house peeking between the trees. I half expected to see the white convertible, but the driveway was empty except for Bing’s Mercedes, which sat in its usual spot beside the garage.

I grabbed my lemon purse and walked toward the house. The breeze smelled faintly of the ocean. I took a breath and pressed the doorbell. We had one of those bells that could play any song in the world, and since we’d gotten engaged, we’d set it to play the marriage song. It soothed me to hear the familiar ding-dongs.

He didn’t open the door, so I pushed the bell again. I heard a skittering sound as Sir ran into the foyer. He shot out the doggie door. I dropped to my knees; he trotted into my outstretched arms and knocked me sideways. He licked my face and hair. I scratched his ears, and his lips drew back.

“Where’s Bing?” I asked.

Sir barked and squirmed away from my grasp. I stood up. My shorts and knees were splotched with red paw prints. I rubbed one of the prints, and it smeared.

“You’re hurt!” I grabbed Sir and checked his feet. He looked up at me and snorted. He didn’t seem to be cut anywhere, so I stood up and rang the bell again.

“Bing?” I rapped hard on the door. “Bing, open up!”

I walked around the side of the house and stepped onto the patio. A silver key stuck out of the lock and the door stood ajar. Typical Bing. Organized, yet messy. Always in a hurry. He had a habit of leaving his key in the door, which just invited burglars. I pulled out the key and stepped into the den, a true man cave, with knotty-pine walls, bookcases, leather recliner, and flat-screen television.

“Bing? It’s me,” I called. When he didn’t answer, I wondered if I’d been wrong about the blood. Maybe Sir had gotten into the trash and had tracked spaghetti sauce through the house.

“It’s okay, baby,” I told Sir as he jumped around my knees, his jowls swinging back and forth. He wanted me to pick him up, which required both of my hands. I dropped Bing’s key in my lemon purse and lifted Sir into my arms. I followed paw prints into the kitchen. It was tidier than I’d left it but smelled odd, like fireworks.

When I got near the door to the breakfast room, Sir began to squirm. I set him on the floor and looked around. The tile counter was bare and glossy except for a bowl of green apples. Bing wasn’t one to decorate with fruit. Either Natalie or the redhead had been playing house.

I walked toward the breakfast room. Bing’s chair was pulled back at an angle. Then I saw him. He was sprawled on the floor, facedown. A dark puddle spread from his chest and met a smaller puddle near his head. I ran to him and pressed two fingers against his neck. It was warm and still. No pulse. And he wasn’t breathing.

I withdrew my hand. My fingers were tipped with red. One word rang out in my mind: murder. I had to call the police. I reached inside my purse for my cell phone when someone grabbed me from behind. Before I could look over my shoulder, pain shot through my neck. My head wouldn’t move. A current ran through my body, over and over, until all my muscles went rigid. I was falling, falling into a black hole. My last coherent thought was,
Teen, you been tased
.

thirteen

I was dimly aware of a sniffing sound. The wet petal softness of a tongue hit my face. I cracked open one eye and saw a spotted muzzle.

“Sir?” I croaked. “That you?”

He answered with a snort. I lay there too dizzy to move. If Sir was here, then where was I? The dog licked and licked. His tongue slid over my eyes and curled into my nostril. When I tried to push him away, my hand felt limp and boneless. After a minute, I was able to move my head. I saw Bing. He was dead—violently dead.

My arms tingled and I couldn’t think straight. I waited until I could control my muscles enough to sit up. I patted my neck, searching for a bump or wound, but I didn’t feel a thing. I clearly remembered feeling a burst of pain, then my whole body going into a knot. What would do that? Had I slipped in blood or had someone hit me from behind? A taser wouldn’t knock me out. At least it didn’t knock out people on
Law & Order.

If I had been attacked from behind, whoever did it might still be in the house. My cell phone was lying on top of my purse. I punched in 9-1-1. When the operator answered, I said, “I’d like to report a dead body. Someone hurt my … my…”

I paused. How to word this? My ex-fiancé? Friend? Maybe I shouldn’t be specific.

“He’s bleeding,” I said. “I think … I think he’s dead. Please, send help.”

“Slow down, ma’am,” the operator said, but the smell of copper pennies rushed up my nose and I couldn’t breathe. I gave the address and clicked off. I was having trouble remembering what had happened before I’d found Bing’s body. Everything was in pieces. The text message. Sir’s bloody paw prints. Green apples. And a dead Bing.

I heard a car screech up the driveway. I walked into the hall and unlocked the front door. A big-shouldered, dark-haired officer looked past me into the foyer. “Did you report a murder?” he asked.

Murder? Had I said that? Behind him, the blue lights on top of his car swirled over the trees. “Ma’am?” asked the officer, blinking at my bloody clothes. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No.”

“You’ve got blood all over you.”

“It’s from my dog. He shot out the doggie door.” I pointed, and Sir barked. I motioned for the policeman to follow. When I reached the kitchen, I gestured at the breakfast room. “He’s in there,” I said and pressed a trembly finger to my lips. “I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

The officer stepped through the arched doors and froze. His head angled toward his shoulder microphone and he called for backup. Then he blinked. “Ma’am, have you moved anything or touched the victim?”

“I … I took his pulse.”

He hunkered down and pushed his finger into Bing’s neck. I couldn’t get my breath. I rubbed my hand over my throat. I needed my inhaler. But it was in my purse, and I didn’t want to walk through the blood to get it. My spit tasted like I’d been sucking pennies, and I thought I might be sick.

The officer stood and turned. “What’s your name, miss?”

“Teeny Templeton.”

“Do you know the victim?”

“He was my fiancé,” I said with emphasis on
was.

He looked at my bare fingers. “And you came home and found him?”

“Yes,” I said, then thought of my annual lie tally. Had I just told number thirteen? Technically, yes. This
had
been my home until recently. Misleading a policeman would definitely qualify as a commandment breaker. I shut my eyes and did a quick recount of every lie I’d told so far.

Number one, Aunt Bluette—New Year’s Day.

Numbers two through twelve, Bing—January through June.

I stared up at the chandelier, into the tear-shaped prisms. What should I do? I could look the cop in the eye and say, Actually, this isn’t my home. But if I told the truth he might get the wrong idea about me. Better to raise the lie count than get slapped into the pokey, right?

In the distance I heard sirens. A man in a dark green suit came into the house and talked to the responding officer. Uniformed policemen streamed around them, followed by men in overalls. I heard the responding officer say my name. The guy in the suit turned. His eyes were the color of his suit, hazel, and protruded from deep sockets. His hair was curly and windblown, jutting up like a Chia Pet. He walked over and introduced himself as Detective Purvis.

“Did you witness the homicide?” he asked.

I shook my head. Bile spurted into my throat, and I bolted to the powder room. Sir scratched at the door while I was sick. I turned back to the sink, switched on the faucet, and ran my hands under the cold water. The door flung open. Detective Purvis reached past me and turned off the tap.

“Ma’am, don’t wash your hands,” he said.

But it was too late; I already had.

He grabbed my elbows, steered me into the dining room, and pulled out a chair. Sir trotted under the table and growled. I sat down and put my hand on my chest. In the background I heard the officers say that Bing had been shot. I imagined him lying on the floor, and I drew in a wheezy breath.

The detective’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“I’ve got asthma,” I said. “I hate to bother you, but I need my inhaler. It’s in my purse and my purse is in there.” I pointed toward the breakfast room.

He left the room and I dropped my head into my hands, forcing myself to take measured breaths. Purvis returned with my handbag. I grabbed my Ventolin inhaler, shook it, and took a puff.

Detective Purvis sat down. “Miss Templeton, tell me again what happened.”

“I knocked and rang the bell. Bing wouldn’t come to the door.”

“Where were you prior to coming home?”

“Charleston.”

“Where exactly?” Purvis asked.

“Rainbow Row.”

“Why were you there?”

I almost said “visiting” but that would have definitely been a lie. “I’ve spent the past few nights at a house on Rainbow Row,” I told him.

“Which house?”

“The Spencer-Jackson.”

“Why were you there if you live here?” Purvis glanced up at the brass chandelier.

“See, Bing and I broke up.”

“When?”