Killer in Crinolines

by Duffy Brown

  My guess was that Simon and Waynetta had made their way to the van. Both thrived on drama and the ex at the wedding screamed drama. I headed for the back steps, the slapping of my flip-flops echoing in the now-empty hallway. Everyone was seated outside, wanting nothing more than to get back to air-conditioning and chilled champagne quickly as possible. I turned for the atrium in time to hear Delta from Cakery Bakery arguing with Tipper, her ex, over the color of the buttercream roses and collided head-on with a waitress coming out of the dining room.

  “Have you seen the bride or the groom?” I asked breathless, my hundred and twenty-three pounds and Old Yeller taking the worst of the impact. Okay, a hundred and twenty-eight pounds, but I swear I’m on a diet and just thinking ahead.

  The waitress’s side ponytail drooped down around her ears and she leaned against one of the fake marble columns, her blue eyes with even bluer eye shadow not focusing. “What am I ever going to do?” She slid to the marble floor, her black-and-white uniform inching up to her thighs.

  I hunkered down next to . . . Suellen, or so her badge said. “Hey, are you all right?”

  Suellen shook her head, blonde hair pulling free. She sobbed. “How could this happen?”

  “We just ran into each other, is all, honey. Take a few deep breaths.” I rummaged around in Old Yeller and came up with a half roll of Life Savers and peeled off a red one. “Here, eat this. Sugar cures all. Are you okay?”

  “This is terrible, just terrible.” Suellen slurped the candy and pointed a shaky finger to the double doors leading to the dining room. A chill replaced the August heat cooking me to near done.

  I stood and entered the dining room, quiet and still, dust motes floating in the setting sun. Round tables were decked out in peach-tone linens with white flower arrangements of roses and forget-me-nots. Candlelight danced about the room and Doreen-the-wedding-planner lay crumbled in a heap on the floor.

  “Oh dear Lord!” I starting for Doreen but then stopped in my tracks because Simon was there, too. He was facedown in the five-tiered wedding cake with a silver cake knife sticking out of his back.

  Chapter Two

  THE dining room door opened behind me, letting in the first strands of Pachelbel, the music of brides everywhere, and Auntie KiKi.

  “Reagan, thank heavens I found you,” KiKi huffed, her dress swishing softly across the ivory carpet as she came my way. “I still can’t find Simon or Waynetta anywhere and what in the world are you and Doreen-the-wedding-planner doing down there on the floor like that and—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Lord have mercy and saints preserve us!”

  I figured the last part enlisting the powers above meant Auntie KiKi had found Simon after all. I helped Doreen to a sitting position and the three of us stared, saying nothing till KiKi whispered, “That looks like a mighty fine cake.”

  “Raspberry filling and buttercream icing to die for.” KiKi gave me the You didn’t really just say that look and I made the sign of the cross for disrespecting the dead. KiKi and I hoisted Doreen onto a chair. She wobbled a bit, then plopped her elbow in the middle of a white china plate right there on the table and rested her forehead against her palm in how-could-this-happen-to-me expression.

  “I take it you called the police?” KiKi said to me, her voice sounding weak, sirens approaching.

  “I ran into a waitress out in the hall. She must have seen Simon and made the call.”

  “There wasn’t anyone out there when I came in, Reagan. I wonder who—”

  Before KiKi could finish her sentence, Detective Aldeen Ross and two uniformed officers barged through the double dining room doors as if they owned the place. Detective Ross looked from me and Auntie KiKi to Simon. Frown lines wrinkled her forehead, her brown eyes beady, her gaze fixed on me and KiKi. “You two again. Why am I not surprised?”

  It was a flat-out statement, not even a polite Southern question asking how we were holding up or wasn’t this a mighty hot day to be dead. Detective Ross and KiKi and I had history and it wasn’t a great one. Ross happened to be the detective when KiKi and I stumbled on another dead body four months ago. It suddenly occurred to me that KiKi and I were developing very bad dead people karma.

  “I didn’t do it, I swear!” KiKi blurted, raising her hands in the air, the stress of murder and Detective Ross getting the better of her.

  “I never said you did,” Ross groused.

  “How’d you all get out here from town so fast?” I wondered aloud.

  “Got a call there was a UPS truck stashed in the bushes. Everyone knows Mr. Waverly’s daughter’s getting married here today and the man’s always been right supportive of the SPD, donating to the widows and orphans fund and all. We came out to take a look. Thought I’d see to things myself but I never expected this.” Her eyes narrowed inquisition style. “Why aren’t you dressed like the others around here?”

  “Making an emergency delivery.” I pulled out the bowtie from Old Yeller and eyed the corpse. “Seems he lost his.”

  Ross used to be as wide as she was high and always dressed in navy polyester that undoubtedly stood up well under the occupational hazards of blood, guts, and gore. The navy poly part still held, but she was now packing a good thirty pounds less pudge, her skirt held together with safety-pins to take up the slack. I started to say how great she looked but proper etiquette toward a woman with a gun strapped to her hip was a complete mystery.

  Ross slid a chair out next to Doreen. KiKi—now the same shade as the carpet—wilted into it, her green skirts billowing around her. Ross handed KiKi and Doreen bottles of water from her brown shoulder bag, which rivaled mine in size. Aldeen Ross had the dead-person routine down pat.

  “You best tell everyone outside there’s not going to be a wedding today,” Ross said to the two policemen standing beside her. I recognized one as Officer Dumont, who had happened upon me when I swiped a military memorial wreath from Colonial Park Cemetery. Normally I would never do such a terrible thing as that’s how people wind up in hell. I was truly in a desperate way.

  Ross added, “Make sure no one leaves the grounds.”

  The other officer, who I didn’t know, stroked his chin. “I do believe a seafood delivery truck just headed down the drive.”

  “Well, go fetch him or at least find out who it is.” Ross turned to me and exhaled an audible sigh. “And what are you doing here?”

  “I was looking for the bride and groom.”

  “The quartet is playing Pachelbel, the ceremony’s ready to start, and you couldn’t even find the bride?”

  “Or groom. It’s been that kind of wedding,” Doreen-the-wedding-planner said, massaging her temples, her eyes crossed. “I heard noise and came in to see if it was Simon or Waynetta. I saw Simon in the cake and that’s all I remember till Reagan showed up beside me. This will kill my business.” She rolled her eyes at the kill reference, then buried her head in her hands. “You wouldn’t happen to have a peach martini in that bag of yours instead of water? I could do with a peach martini right now.” Doreen’s head jerked up as if spring-mounted and she looked Ross in the eyes. “Peach.”

  “Lady, I don’t have a martini or any other alcohol in my purse. Do you have any ideas how many calories are in a martini? One hundred ninety if you only have one olive.” Ross yanked out a baggie of carrot sticks from her handbag and dropped it on the table. “Deal.”

  Doreen-the-wedding-planner pointed to the rear emergency exit door across the room. “When I came in, someone in a peach dress, a bridesmaid dress I do believe now that I think about the color, went hurrying out right through there. One of the bridesmaids said her dress went missing and that must have been it. I spied Simon surrounded by cake and icing and fainted dead away and—”

  “Where is he!” Waynetta burst into the room, the train of her silk-and-pearl wedding gown draped over her skinny arm. Word had it she lost twenty pounds for the wedding and, only being a size 2 to begin with, that made for one boney-looking bride. She stopped, peered at Simon, threw
down her bouquet, then kicked it across the room, flowers and trailing ribbons landing smack on top of Simon.

  “That man has gone and ruined everything!” Waynetta screeched. “You can never trust men to do what they’re supposed to do. It’s always about what they want. What about me?” She poked herself in the chest and I caught a glimpse of her diamond the size of a duck egg.

  “This is my day. I made all the plans. I did all the work. I chose everything just the way I wanted it with no help from Simon. All he had to do was show up and he couldn’t even do that right! Just look at him, he’s a mess!”

  “The flowers are a nice touch.”

  Waynetta gave me a hateful look, then turned to Doreen slumped in the chair with KiKi splashing water on her face while I fanned her with a napkin. Waynetta said, “Tell the kitchen staff to serve dinner outside. See what they have for a suitable dessert, cake is out of the question. Tell those Cakery Bakery people their services are no longer needed. The roses were more pink than peach anyway and I have no intention of paying for such an atrocity. Can’t anyone do anything right around here?”

  Waynetta tipped her chin and straightened her spine, her dress nearly sliding right off. She hitched up the front. “I certainly hope no one expects me to return the wedding presents. They’re mine, all mine. Lord knows I deserve them after all this commotion.”

  Waynetta swirled around on her little heel, snagged a carrot stick, and left in a cloud of white, her dress not all the way buttoned up the back. Didn’t bridesmaids check such things? Aldeen, who had undoubtedly come across almost every scenario in her detective life of murder and mayhem, looked perplexed. I suspected it took a lot to perplex Aldeen Ross. “Piss and vinegar,” she said. “Never seen anything quite like that before. One for the books.”

  For sure Waynetta Waverly was the most self-absorbed person in Savannah, but this reaction bubbled right over the top even for her. Not a hint of a whimper or a tear of love lost anywhere unless you counted the possibility of her returning presents.

  KiKi took my napkin and patted Doreen’s face dry. “Don’t you worry about a thing, sugar. You just rest for a spell. I’ll see what the kitchen can do about dinner. That might calm folks if they’re going to be here for a spell.” She turned to me. “You get Doreen upstairs. She needs to get herself into bed and settle her nerves.”

  Auntie KiKi stood, steadied, then wobbled. Giving up on proper Southern decorum, she kicked her green shoes under the table, then shuffled off in bare feet to the kitchen. I hooked my shoulder under Doreen’s arm and helped her up. Aldeen made her way to the cake, plucked off the bouquet, and took a closer look at Simon. She made a call on her cell phone, saying something about needing a meat wagon. I guessed that was cop-speak for coroner but I’d had enough death for one day and didn’t ask.

  When Doreen and I reached the top of the stairs one of the bridesmaids came out of her room dressed in denim shorts and a halter top and looking as if she’d been caught in a windstorm. “Do you mind if Doreen here uses your room to lie down for a bit.”

  “Lie down!” the bridesmaid wailed and ran her hand through her hair, making it stick out even more. “Doreen-the-wedding-planner can’t do that. She needs to . . . plan. She needs to find my dress. It’s gone, I tell you, gone! Look at me. There won’t be enough bridesmaids. The wedding will be ruined. Waynetta will hate me.” Terror lit her eyes and she growled, “Lord have mercy, do you know what happens when Waynetta Waverly hates you? Your life in Savannah is ruined, that’s what. You’re blackballed from dances, ostracized at church, ignored at dinners, snubbed everywhere.”

  Doreen pushed open the door to the room and flopped back on the bedspread spread-eagle, staring at the ceiling. “The wedding’s off,” she said in a flat voice. “I suppose you could say the groom got creamed. I should have been a librarian like Mamma wanted.” Doreen closed her eyes, draped a black bow tie across her forehead in defeat, and was instantly asleep.

  “I don’t get it. What in the world is going on?” the bridesmaid asked me.

  I studied the bow tie draped across Doreen, knew I had the replacement for it in my purse, and wondered the same thing. What was going on? “Simon sort of . . . died.”

  “Dead? Simon? Oh my God! How could this happen to me?” The perky little bridesmaid’s scream could have stripped wallpaper, and she ran down the steps and out the back door. Doreen-the-wedding-planner didn’t even flinch.

  I closed the door to the room and went looking for KiKi to see if she needed help with the dinner plans. The UPS truck still sat in the weeping willow tree, but now a swarm of big dresses of every color and their escorts headed right for it. Considering the heat of the day, these folks were truly on a mission of some significance.

  Oh, Lordy! Chantilly? Did the crowd think she did in Simon and they were all upset about it? The man was far more liked than I expected. Personally I thought he was a traitorous, money-grubbing slug of a human being. I ran down the steps to find Aldeen Ross standing in the hall, writing in her spiral book. I grabbed the book away. “I think there’s going to be a lynching.”

  She snatched back the book, a scowl on her face. “Keep that up and you’ll be volunteering for the event.”

  More out of curiosity than concern, Ross followed me across the lawn to the brown truck surrounded by Southern belles and gentlemen in cream-toned suits complete with tails, top hats in hand. Chantilly was nowhere in sight, but Elsie Abbott had wedged her lavender fluffiness into the van opening and was reading off a UPS package in a commanding schoolteacher voice.

  Elsie and her sister, AnnieFritz, were retired teachers and lived on the other side of me in a small Greek Revival left to them by their cousin Willie. Three years ago Cousin Willie dropped dead over at the Pirate House restaurant after too much fried chicken and gravy and not enough green veggies and whole grains.

  “Putter Vanderpool?” Elsie Abbott called out from the truck. Uncle Putter’s hand shot up and a long, narrow package of golf-club proportion got passed on back to him.

  “Uh, do you have any idea what’s going on here?” Ross asked, an exasperated edge in her voice as I’d clearly wasted her valuable time.

  “It’s not a lynching.”

  “Least not yet.” She glared my way as AnnieFritz called out GracieAnn Harlow’s name.

  “You see,” I tried to explain. “Chantilly Parker is our beloved UPS delivery gal and has been under some stress of late and not getting the packages to their rightful destination. Being neighborly and sympathizing with the situation, everyone just takes it upon themselves to exchange parcels. My guess is now that most are here in one place they’re claiming what rightfully belongs to them.” Like killing two birds with one stone, I thought, but Detective Ross didn’t seem in the mood for morbid levity so I kept my mouth shut.

  “Why is this Chantilly person here on a Saturday in her truck? What’s this all about?” Ross asked.

  “Simon and Chantilly were once . . .” Uh-oh, this was another time to keep my mouth shut. Chantilly had motive enough for polishing off Simon twice over, not that Ross needed to know that. “Friends,” I added quickly. “Chantilly and Simon were dear friends. She was probably out making deliveries and must have wanted to wish him well. I was concerned people might be upset over the package situation of late and things would get out of hand so I came to get you.”

  Ross gave me an I’m not buying that piece of garbage look as Chantilly came around the side of the plantation house, crying for all she was worth. “Someone killed Simon.” She pulled up beside me. “I had to use the little girl’s room and when I came out I heard the terrible news.” Chantilly hiccupped and rubbed her eyes. “He had it coming, that’s for sure, the no-good rotten bastard. He deserves to have his entrails eaten by hyenas and to be dead and buried in a shallow grave, but he should have been my no-good rotten bastard.”

  “You might want to rethink that,” I said to Chantilly as Ross swiped a dribble of icing from Chantilly’s brown uniform and Elsi
e Abbott held up a peach dress from the van. “Well, looky what we have here. I do believe there’s a little hanky-panky going on over at UPS. Someone’s done left their dress behind in this truck, crinolines and all. My oh my, what is this world coming to.”

  The crowd laughed. Ross didn’t crack a smile. “That’s your truck? Your dress? Your deliveries?” she asked Chantilly, cop face firmly in place. “You need to come downtown to the station with me for a chat.”

  “Detective Ross,” Officer Dumont huffed as he hustled toward us from the house. He held a brown cap. “We found this under the cake table.”

  “Why, that there’s mine,” Chantilly said, all little Miss Clueless. She made a grab at the hat with gold UPS stitched on the front. “I must have dropped it. You see, I was sort of in a state when I cut a piece the wedding cake that should have been my wedding cake, being as that Simon Ambrose and I were once engaged, and then he went and fell for Waynetta because she has money and . . .”

  Chantilly gazed at me, her eyes widening at the realization of what she was saying. She cut her eyes to Ross. “You think I, little ol’ me, killed Simon?”

  “Chantilly Parker,” Ross declared as if she were Saint Peter making a declaration from the Pearly Gates. “You are under arrest for the murder of Simon Ambrose.”

  “What! You can’t be arresting me.” Chantilly shook her head, curls flying out into the breeze. “I loved Simon even if he did do me wrong, screw me over, kick me to the curb. Lord knows Simon was an ignoramus, but I’d never kill him, especially in a crinoline of all things. They’re itchy; Mamma made me wear one every Sunday to church. I’d choose a waiter uniform or musician outfit, even one of the cook’s aprons but never a stupid old crinoline.”

  • • •

  “Some people never know when to just keep mouths shut, and I think after today Chantilly is at the top of that particular list,” KiKi said to me. She finished off the last of her two-olive martini as we sat on the front steps of Cherry House. Savannah humidity had finally dipped below 90 percent and a crescent moon hung over the cherry tree in the front yard that gave my house its name. “Heard tell Chantilly went and got her cousin Percy Damon for a lawyer,” KiKi went on. “I suppose that’s all she can afford.”