Killer in Crinolines

by Duffy Brown

  “Percy? He’s what, twenty-three? Been out of law school six months? Chantilly made good money at UPS; you’d think she’d have saved for a rainy day.”

  “And this here is an out-and-out monsoon.” KiKi bit a skewered olive, and Bruce Willis performed his nightly ritual of sniffing, leg lifting, and scratching. This Bruce Willis was not the manly man of Die Hard and The Sixth Sense fame but a rough-around-the-edges dog of indiscriminate parentage. Four months ago he had taken up residence under my porch, then maneuvered his way into my house.

  “Heard tell Doreen-the-wedding-planner is giving up the-wedding-planner part of her name,” KiKi added. “She’s fixing to write a book on the ten virtues of elopement.”

  “I bet Percy’s never even been in a courtroom,” I said, the idea of Chantilly’s innocence resting in his inexperienced hands a little unnerving.

  “Did you hear that Lila Lamont’s husband caught her doing the deed with one of the waiters at the wedding? Right there in the boxwoods of all places. Lord only knows how she managed such a thing in a hoopskirt. She said it was the stress of the day that brought on her fornicating behavior. Personally I think what brought it on was tall, dark, handsome with a big do-da.”

  “Why in the world did Chantilly come to the wedding in the first place?”

  “I’m redoing the parlor in teal and cream. What do you think?”

  I swirled my olive around in my glass. “Chantilly’s got to be innocent; no guilty person with two ounces of sense in their head would spill their guts to Ross the way she did. How’s Percy going to prove it?”

  “Putter just told me he wants to book us passage on the next space shuttle to Mars and we’re going to live there for a year.”

  “Do you think Percy can get Chantilly out on bail? It’s one of those things covered in Lawyer 101, don’t you think? Bet he can’t do it till Monday and poor Chantilly will have to spend all tomorrow in jail. How could this happen?”

  KiKi snapped my untouched martini right out of my hand and took a long drink. “Reagan, honey, I know where this is headed, and it’s not a good place to be going. You’re working yourself up to getting involved with finding who did in Simon and not listening to one blessed word I say. You haven’t touched your martini, meaning you’re thinking and fretting, and that’s going to lead straight to trouble.”

  I took back my martini and ate the olive. “Chantilly helped me get the Prissy Fox up and running,” I said around a mouthful. “She sent out tweets to her friends to get them to shop here and bring in clothes to consign. She gave me ideas on how to do the bookkeeping system to keep consigners straight and track sales. Maybe we can help her out. What’s the harm in a little assistance when needed; that’s what we do here in Savannah, right?”

  “We?” KiKi choked. “How did this suddenly become a we situation?”

  I wagged my empty toothpick. “Nothing’s going on in Savannah in August, it’s too blessed hot to even move around here. We all sit on our porches and overdose on sweet tea and alcohol depending on the time of day and who’s looking. You don’t have dance lessons scheduled ’cause there’s not a cotillion or social gala till late September. What are you going to do with yourself all month, tell me that?”

  KiKi grabbed back the martini. “Hibernating inside my fridge with a gallon of Leopold’s Old Black Magic ice cream has definite appeal. Think about the last time we went hunting for the bad guys.” She held up her fingers and counted off. “There were abductions in dark alleys, guns, break-ins, hunting through smelly shoe closets, late-night rendezvous, and hunky Italian gardeners. I have to confess I didn’t mind the hunky-gardener part so much. And then there’s your mamma. If she finds out you’re sleuthing again, she’ll have a conniption.”

  Mamma had been a single parent since I was two and Daddy went boar hunting with some good-old-boys from the Oglethorpe Club and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and never lived to tell the tale. Over the years Mamma escalated from conservative lawyer who named her one and only child Reagan, to Judge “Guillotine” Gloria, feared by lawyers and criminals alike. Mamma did things by the book. When sleuthing, my book read more like Crooks, Criminals, and Catastrophes. When not sleuthing my book kept the catastrophe part.

  “Mamma’s knee-deep in election mode with running for city council,” I told KiKi. “We shouldn’t bother her with such things as—”

  “Murder?” KiKi gulped the rest of my martini and stood. She kissed me on the forehead like she had when I told her I was marrying Hollis Beaumont the Third and she knew I was an idiot for doing such an asinine thing but there was no stopping me.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said. “Spare key for the Beemer is under the floor mat if you’re in need of a car. Don’t ding anything or Putter will skin us both and bury our poor lifeless bodies in the sand trap on the fourteenth green over there at Sweet Marsh Country Club since he spends so much time in that particular location. And for heaven’s sake, stay away from Aldeen Ross. She might be skinnier these days, but she sure is crankier. The girl’s in need of some serious cheesecake therapy, if you ask me.”

  Chapter Three

  I PICKED up a Conquistador sandwich at Zunzi’s, then drove down Presidents Street, which was still hopping with locals and even some tourists on a Saturday night. Why anyone visited Savannah in August on purpose was a complete mystery to me. April, now that month belonged to Savannah.

  I took Route 80 out of town, heading for Whitemarsh Island. The closer I got to the ocean, the worse the humidity; my two-toned head of half-blonde and half intending-to-be-blonde hair curled into corkscrews around my head. I could turn on the AC but I liked being part of the smells, the sounds, and surrounded by water even if I did have sweat dripping down my back. A night heron cut across the moon, a sea breeze ruffled the oats. I passed the sign proclaiming the next stretch of road a turtle crossing and watched the lights of the city fade away in the rearview mirror as I drove off into the pitch black where sky met ocean.

  The red neon announcing Uncle Bubba’s Oyster House, which had little to do with Uncle Bubba and everything to do with Paula Deen expanding her food domain, glared from the side of the road. I took a hard right onto Bryan Woods Road and slowed. The tide was in, marshland close by, and the need to stay vigilant particularly important with alligators ready for a midnight snack. The white plantation house loomed in the distance, and even without a murder happening on the premises the place would have a guard or two prowling the grounds. I parked the Beemer behind bottlebrush bushes, their blooms this time of year long and red. I took the car keys, my sandwich, and a flashlight from Old Yeller, which held enough stuff to sustain life for a week. I quietly closed the car door.

  Keeping to the shadows, I hid in the weeping willow where Chantilly had parked her UPS van that afternoon. I wondered what happened to it. Did the police take it as evidence? The locals drive it off, holding it hostage till a more reliable driver took over? I wanted to look around, see if the killer left something behind. I had no idea what and went with the idea that I’d know it if I saw it. Yellow crime-scene tape drooped across the front pillars, with a few lights on inside the plantation house for security reasons. A whip-poor-will called into the darkness, no doubt looking for a little night action.

  “Checking the place out for your next wedding?” a deep voice breathed behind me, a hand sliding across my mouth.

  A scream lodged in my throat, every hair on my body standing straight up. I spun around and faced Walker Boone, who was not the late-night stalker I feared but the ornery whoreson cretin lawyer who took me to the cleaners in my divorce from Hollis. That I’d signed a prenup might have had something to do with the cleaners part.

  Boone operated on the right side of the law most of the time, but back in his pubescent years he ran with the Seventeenth Street gang. He was a head taller than me with perpetual scruff, buzz-length back hair, black eyes, a hard, lean body honed in a youth of gang days dodging bullets, knives, and baseball bats, and no doubt kept up by
daily gym visits, and had the capacity to make grown women whimper by doing nothing more than walking down Bull Street. “What are you doing here?” I whispered.

  “Heard there was a wedding.”

  “You’re seven hours and one dead groom late; go away.”

  “What brings you out to this neck of the woods at this hour?”

  From past encounters, I knew there was no getting rid of Boone unless I answered him. I also knew he was here for a reason. “Chantilly Parker seems to be suspect number one in killing Simon Ambrose, and Chantilly and I are friends. It looks like she might have stabbed the groom out of jealousy and maybe a bit of revenge.” I gave that some thought. “There could have been some rightful indignation and blatant anger involved and passion—yeah, lots of passion—but she didn’t do it. Heaven only knows why, but she loved the conniving piece of crud.”

  “Word has it logic and Chantilly parted company a few months back. Something about being naked on a horse and swearing she’d see Simon dead and in the grave before she let him marry someone else.”

  “I didn’t know about the dead-and-in-the-grave part.”

  “What you don’t know fills volumes, Blondie.” Boone tucked his finger under my chin and my gaze met his unwavering stare that never gave anything away. “Go home,” he said. “Feed our dog.”

  Boone had once paid a hefty vet bill and now maintained that he owned BW’s tail and a leg. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

  “An associate has the same notion as you do about Chantilly not killing Simon. I got black-eyed pea sandwiches from Matthews and the security guard and I exchanged pleasantries. He also happens to be a gravedigger out there at Bonaventure Cemetery. His life is about as exciting as yours.”

  “My life is plenty exciting.”

  Boone tapped my Zunzi’s bag. “Conquistador with special sauce?”

  Good eats and drink will loosen any tongue in Savannah, and I wasn’t the only one who knew such things. “Since you beat me in food bribes,” I said. “The least you can do is tell what you found out from the guard.”

  I took out the Conquistador sandwich and held up half. Nothing like fresh-out-of-the-oven French bread, grilled chicken with tomato and lettuce all smothered in special sauce dripping down my hand to tempt a man. Boone hesitated a second, his eyes on the prize, drool forming at the corner of his mouth. He snatched the sandwich and bit into his half, doing a feeding-time-at-the-zoo routine as I did the same.

  He leaned contentedly against the trunk of an oak and licked sauce from his thumb. “The way I see it, Chantilly had motive. The peach dress that the killer wore was found in her UPS van, her hat was under the cake table, there was icing on her face and her fingerprints on the cake knife, making this case a slam dunk for the local authorities.”

  I licked a dribble of sauce off my own thumb and had a come-to-Jesus moment. “Chantilly cut into the wedding cake because she thought it should be her wedding cake and that’s why her fingerprints are on the knife, and maybe she yelled a few threats on horseback—”

  “Naked,” Boone added between chews.

  “Naked,” I conceded. I smacked my lips together, catching every last morsel. “She’d had other breakups and didn’t kill those guys.” I took another bite. If I didn’t finish off my sandwich, Boone would. I was sure of it because that’s much how my divorce went. If I had something he and my dear ex wanted, they simply took it, except for Cherry House, and they would have gotten their grubby hands on that too if I hadn’t found a killer and cheated Boone out of his lawyer fee.

  “Maybe she suddenly felt it was time for a change,” Boone said, his mouth stuffed. “She got messed over by one too many men and snapped.”

  We polished off the last of the sandwich and I squelched an appreciative burp. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Saw KiKi’s Beemer in the bushes, your purse on the seat. I figured it was more likely you pinched your auntie’s car and came snooping than that she’d taken a liking to that ugly purse you carry around and drive out here. You should keep in mind that this here is a crime scene and the police frown on nosy shop owners messing around on their designated turf.”

  “Percy Damon is Chantilly’s lawyer; she needs all the messing around she can get. Too bad she can’t afford you.” The words were out of my mouth before I could bite them back.

  “Chantilly’s dad is retired police; I’m retired hood.”

  “Semiretired,” I corrected.

  Boone didn’t argue the point and swiped his hand across his mouth to mop up. “We’ve had altercations, none lately.” A slow grin spread across Boone’s face, his teeth white against the dark night, a tiny dab of sauce on his chin. “I do believe you’re paying me a compliment, Miss Summerside.”

  “I know how you work is all I’m saying. It isn’t nice or pretty, but you win. I’m living proof of that particular point.” I glanced back to the house. “Guess there’s no getting in that place tonight with you already feeding and finessing the guard. You owe it to me to keep me in the loop.”

  “There is no loop. This case is closed. Thanks for the sandwich.”

  “Who asked you to snoop around?”

  “No one in your social circle.”

  Meaning it was someone in Boone’s circle, or was that circles? Boone rubbed shoulders with the mayor, the country club set, cops, drag queens, and boys in the hood. He rubbed considerably more than shoulders with a good portion of Savannah’s female population, or so the gossips said.

  I headed back to the Beemer, Boone watching me every step of the way. He’d done a lot of that during the divorce too, not because of my astounding good looks and sexy apparel but because a time or two I’d threatened to jump across his fancy expensive mahogany desk that Lee or Grant or, more than likely, Al Capone had once owned, and strangle Boone with my bare hands. Tonight he watched to make sure I left the premises without causing a problem. If I got caught snooping around, he’d get found out too and that’s not how Boone operated.

  • • •

  The next morning I made church by the skin of my teeth. Afterward I passed on having hot coffee and grabbed toast and sweet tea, then scooped doggie kibble for BW. With no kitchen table or chairs, I hitched myself onto the yellow Formica counter with a chip on the left corner, feet dangling off the edge.

  Just because I managed to hold on to Cherry House, which I single-handedly restored because Hollis didn’t know a screwdriver from any other kind of screw except the kind he used on me when we divorced, didn’t mean I could afford the place. To make ends meet, I’d stepped up my part-time job of escorting wide-eyed tourists around Savannah and pointing out historic homes, relaying deeds of heroes and scalawags, and giving slightly embellished accounts of ghosts and hauntings. This wasn’t enough to pay for such luxuries as taxes, electricity, and water so I sold off furniture, and four months ago turned the first floor of Cherry House into a consignment shop. Chantilly helped me get started.

  So how could I help her? How could I get Chantilly out of her current predicament? Who else wanted Simon dead? Forfeiting the privilege of being Mrs. Simon Ambrose didn’t seem to bother Waynetta one lick. I spent the day sprucing up the Fox, adding displays, and thinking how to approach Waynetta about being my number-one suspect in who killed Simon until Hollis walked in big as you please and handsome as ever. Not that he got me all hot and excited. I got over hot and excited when I found him doing the horizontal hula with Cupcake while still married to me.

  “Heard Chantilly served up her own version of wedded bliss yesterday,” Hollis said in his best smooth-talking, I-want-something voice.

  “You’re here to chat about a wedding?”

  “Things look kind of slow. Business not so good these days?” Hollis meandered around the shop as if he owned the place, then picked a scarf from the dining room table that I used for displays. “Be a downright rotten shame to lose the place to foreclosure after all the work you put into it.”

  If I
wrestled him to the ground and strangled him with the scarf it would be bad for business . . . maybe. Hollis the Savannah Sleaze was known far and wide. “It’s Sunday, Hollis. Things are always slow on Sunday.”

  “Heard they weren’t much better the rest of the time.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just stopped in to say hello and . . .”

  Wait for it. Wait for it. I knew something else was coming; it was the Hollis way.

  “And to see if you wanted to sell Cherry House before you lose everything.”

  Bingo! “And you’d handle the sale, of course.”

  He grinned, his bleached teeth cutting a dazzling path across his tanned face. “Just because we’re divorced doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. I can get a pretty penny for this place even in the condition it’s in.”

  “And you’d get a hefty commission and I’d barely get enough to pay off the mortgage.”

  He held up his hands in surrender, except he wasn’t surrendering anything—that would be me.

  “Better than bankruptcy. I owe you for finding Cupcake’s killer like you did and saving my behind.”

  “And this is how you repay me?” I pointed a stiff finger at the door. “Out!”

  Hollis patted my cheek, put his business card and the scarf on the checkout counter, then sauntered to the door. “Think about it, Reagan.”

  “What I think is that you’re total scum.”

  • • •

  At ten sharp on monday morning I opened the front white paint-chipped door I loved, with original glass and brass hinges, and flipped the sign in the bay window from “Closed” to “Open.” Today would be better, I told myself. Hollis was wrong saying I’d lose everything. August was a little off, is all. I had nice stuff and word would get out, except at the moment the only one who got that word was apparently Auntie KiKi, who was waltzing through the door.