by Duffy Brown
Boone parked his hand on his lean hip, the tiniest of smiles at the corners of his mouth. “Angel’s. I get it.” He grabbed the bag and came out onto the porch. He sat down on the top step, ripped the foil from the sandwich, and took a bite as if he hadn’t eaten all day. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
“You never thank me for anything.”
“That’s because until now there was no reason.” He took another bite. “We need beer.” He handed me the sandwich.
“I’ll get it,” I offered, handing the sandwich back. “Tell me where.”
“And it gives you a chance to check out my house,” he said, taking another bite.
“There is that.” I dropped Old Yeller on the step, then opened the front door to the entrance hall, living room to the right. In the corner stood one lonely Louis-the-something secretary, a beat-up leather couch facing the fireplace—women had shoes and purses, men had leather couches—a huge desk with the light on, papers scattered over the surface and spilling onto the floor. An ugly table, chairs, and buffet occupied the dining room and more than likely they came with the house, costing more to move them than they were worth. The kitchen had old appliances and a faux wood laminate dinette set the former owners had probably left as well. At this rate I imagined Boone’s bedroom possessed an army cot and crates; not exactly in sync with his playboy reputation. I grabbed two Moon Rivers from the fridge and a bag of little carrots. The compatibility of beer and carrots was questionable, but I figured Boone’s eyes needed all the help they could get.
“And I thought I lived Spartan,” I said to Boone when I got back outside and took the step below him.
“Did you bring a fork for the mac and cheese?”
I dug around in the Angel’s bag and pulled out a spork. Personally I hated those things, which looked like they couldn’t make up their mind about which utensil to be, but I didn’t think Boone would care in his present state of feeding frenzy.
“The carrots belong to my cleaning lady.” Guess that was as good an excuse as any to skip veggies, so we twisted off the beer caps at the same time and both took a swig. Nothing better on a hot summer night in Savannah than cold beer.
“Why are you here?” he asked, looking better than he had a few minutes ago.
“To bring you food.”
“Meaning you want information and this is a bribe.” Boone leaned against one of the wrought-iron posts, me against the other, BW parked between us. “Where’s Hunky?”
“He and Uncle Putter drove to Atlanta for some kind of conference.”
“He’s not your type.”
“He has a job, opens my doors, and picks up the check. That makes him any woman’s type. Did Simon sign a prenup with Waynetta?”
Boone fed BW mac and cheese right off the spork, then finished the rest himself. “Don’t know anything about a prenup,” Boone mumbled around a mouthful. “Thought that was your specialty.”
“You’re mixed up with Reese Waverly some way and my guess is it involves Simon. I’m going to tell you what I think is going on and you can tell me how close I am to being right.”
“How’s that shop of yours doing these days?” Boone said, scraping out the bottom of the carton for the last bit.
“I’m not great at a lot of things, but I seem to be an ace at stirring up trouble and right now Reese Waverly has my full attention. Everyone thinks Simon intended to marry Waynetta for her money but my guess is Simon signed a prenup with Waynetta. That made Reese trust him, and then to show his gratitude Simon scammed Reese on a nonexistent golf course proposition. Reese realized what was going on and that Simon was also screwing around on his darling offspring so he had Sugar-Ray kill him at the wedding.”
“Why kill him? Why wouldn’t Reese just turn Simon over to the police?”
“Pride. He’d look like a gullible fool and people would laugh. Not an acceptable scenario for Reese Waverly the almighty.”
Boone looked at me for a long moment. He yawned and leaned back, his lawyer face firmly in place. “Someone needs to warn your doctor friend what a pain in the butt you are.”
A yawn, the lawyer face, and sarcasm all at the same time! Not fair! Something I said was right on, something close to being right and some part way off base. The question was what part belonged to what?
• • •
It was near midnight when Bruce Willis and I finally got home, East Gaston quiet and sleepy as if resting up for the next day. I learned nothing from Boone except he was working on some big case that was none of my business. I, on the other hand, adhered to the kudzu vine philosophy of since I lived in this city anything and everything that happened here was definitely my business.
Tomorrow I’d look up Sugar-Ray and we’d have a chat. He was a little scarier than I remembered, make that a lot scarier, and I wouldn’t expect him to throw his hands in the air yelling I killed Simon. After the graveyard episode I figured he fit into this murder somehow. Maybe he’d let something slip if I happened to let it slip that I saw him out at Bonaventure swilling white rum and packing a Smith & Wesson.
I pulled my house keys out of Old Yeller and the porch floorboards creaked behind me. It might be a raccoon or opossum but this was a heavy kind of creak making every hair on my body stand straight up and my lungs quit working. Besides, if a night creature did invade the porch, BW would have given chase by now. Instead he flopped down in rub-my-tummy pose, his tail on super-speed. I gripped my keys between my fingers like I’d seen in those self-defense shows and slowly turned around to face Icy Graham, eyes angry, jaw set, body hard and threatening. I needed something more than a house key.
“Hi,” I said all smiles. How could someone hurt little Miss Cheerful? “Can I help you with something?”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Second time tonight I heard that.”
“You should pay attention.” Icy grabbed my hand and threw my keys to the floor. “I know it was you and your friend talking to my daughter the other day.” His voice was low, menacing, fitting the name Icy. He shoved me against the front of the house, rattling the bay window and knocking the breath out of me. His hand closed around my throat, tightening, eyes blazing. “I saw you at the cemetery. Laura Lynn said a lady with a BMW and a woman that needed hair coloring talked to her about Simon. That be you. Stay away from my daughter. You got family. How would you like it if I was out to get them? Stay away from what’s mine or you’ll be sorry, sorrier than you can imagine.”
Icy let me go and ran down the steps to a truck parked across the street. He got in and took off. Jelly-legged I slid to the porch floor, gasping for air. BW came over and licked my face, then sat down beside me as I stroked his back for what seemed like forever, the rhythmic gesture soothing, my life settling back to normal.
Who was I kidding? There was no normal. I was hunting a killer and from what I just saw and felt, Icy Graham would have no qualms killing Simon. He’d have no qualms killing me. Of course the same was true of rifle-toting Reese Waverly. These men were light-years apart in a lot of respects but when it came to protecting their kids they were front and center. As much as I didn’t like either one I respected them for that.
I could call the police about Icy but it was my word against his and then he’d be doubly ticked off. I failed miserably at dealing with a singly ticked-off Icy Graham. Best to let this incident go, but I wanted a look at his truck. After our little encounter, I imagined he was the one who knocked me into the swamp and was a prime candidate for I-killed-Simon. Then again Reese had trucks out at the farm and knew I was snooping around and Pillsbury could borrow a truck anytime the spirit moved him and didn’t think much of Simon either. Even GracieAnn had access to the Cakery Bakery truck. I was running in circles.
I finally felt strong enough to stand. I held on to the porch railing to steady myself as Chantilly drove up in her Jeep. She kept the car running and hurried up the walk.
“You’re still awake, I don’t even have to get you out of bed.”
>
“If this is a one A.M. social call because you’re having an attack of insomnia, you need to know I’m a quart low on sympathy. Come back tomorrow. I’ll be better tomorrow, I promise.”
“Look.” She held up her iPhone and read, “Meet me @ Simon’s ASAP. Info 2 prove u innocent.” She grabbed my hand. “Come on, let’s go. This is great. We’re finally onto something. Someone’s helping us.”
“And you came here to get me because . . .”
“Because there’s a killer on the loose and the condo belongs to someone already dead and buried. It’s kind of creepy especially at night and this isn’t the kind of thing I want to face alone. But it’s still great. We got a lead.”
I didn’t agree with the great part but the lead reference had merit, and two minutes later I’d locked BW safely inside and was sitting beside Chantilly. She found a parking space courtesy of some late-night barfly finally heading home.
“I’ve already been though Simon’s place,” I said as we hoofed it the rest of way to the condo. “I found a book hidden in an ice cream carton in the freezer.”
Chantilly stopped dead right there on the sidewalk. “Get out of town! Why didn’t you tell me before? What was in the book? More people Simon swindled? What did it say? Now we have other suspects. This is a really good night. About time things turned around.”
“Someone knocked me down in the condo and stole the book before I had chance to look at it.”
Chantilly smacked her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “How could you let this happen? Who do you think took it?”
“Do you know anything about Simon and a golf course?”
“As far as I know he didn’t play, but maybe Reese was getting him into the game. Rich man’s sport and all that.”
We crossed the street and I pointed up to Simon’s condo on the second floor. “The lights are off. They’re connected to a timer; they should be on.”
“Unless whoever’s in there is trying to keep a low profile. They didn’t want to meet in a public place so that must be it, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe’s good.” Chantilly took a deep breath through clenched teeth and punched the code to get us inside the building. When we reached Simon’s door Chantilly knocked softly. She knocked again.
“This doesn’t feel right,” I said, little pinpricks of unease running up my spine. It was a night full of things not being right.
Chantilly plucked a key from her purse. “Let’s hope Simon was a lazy slug and didn’t change the locks on me. Last time I was here the key worked.”
“Last time? How long ago was last time?”
“About a week. Had a Simon meltdown followed by a doughnut binge. These things happen.” Chantilly took hold of the doorknob to insert the key but it opened on its own.
“Hello,” Chantilly called out.
“Wait,” I said holding tight on to her arm. “Open door means someone’s inside. I learned that the hard way.”
I took Chantilly’s hand and together we stepped inside. “Anybody here?” Chantilly singsonged. “It’s me, Chantilly, dying to hear more about the information that’s going to prove me innocent.”
“Dying? Really?” I whispered, getting a shush in reply. I flicked the light switch by the door. No lights. The faint glow from the street sliced in through the blinds casting stripes of bright and black onto the wood floor. I pawed around in the bottom of Old Yeller past two lipsticks, a brush, a second container of hairspray I forgot I had, a pack of gum, nail file, scissors, and ta-da, the flashlight. I twisted it on, the beam picking out the humongous TV, debris left over from the fallen bookcase episode, the vanilla candle, and Suellen from the Pirate House lying faceup, eyes wide open, ponytail askew, not moving a bit, and dead as Robert E. Lee, right there on Simon’s fine leather sofa.
Chapter Thirteen
“HOLY mother in heaven!” Chantilly took a step back and smashed right into me; we both made the sign of the cross. “You were right about someone being in here.”
“Not exactly what I had in mind.” I used two hands to hold the light steady.
“Who is it?”
“Waitress at the Pirate House. She was at the wedding and found Simon dead right before I did. She was all upset.”
“Yeah, well, dead bodies have that effect. Think she sent me the text?”
“I think someone who wanted us to find her sent the text and now I hear sirens. We’ve got to get out of here right now.”
Chantilly pointed at the body, a defiant look in her eyes. “But we’re innocent. We didn’t do this.”
“You used that same line four days ago and yet here we are again. Not a good place to be.” I doused the flashlight and using my shirttail swiped off the doorknob inside, grabbed Chantilly’s arm and pulled her out into the hall, closed the door, and wiped the outside knob. The sirens stopped; car doors slamming out front. “We’re trapped!”
“Back entrance.” I followed Chantilly down a hallway leading away from the street, our footsteps muffled by the carpet. Chantilly shoved on a door taking us to a fenced-in area, an ancient fluorescent light suspended overhead from a phone pole. Sirens approached down the alley, our only way out. I nodded at the Dumpster.
“It’s August!” Chantilly hissed, eyes huge.
Translation: Bugs, vermin, smells from the depths of hell.
“Jail.” I hissed.
Translation: Cavity search, group showers, Brunhilde as a roomie.
We scrambled over the edge, landing on filled garbage bags as a cruiser pulled to a screeching stop outside the Dumpster, sirens echoing off the rusting metal. I could feel Chantilly shaking next to me. Least I told myself it was Chantilly. Something crawled up my leg and I put my hand over my mouth to smother a scream.
“Why did I let you talk me into this?” Chantilly whimpered.
I glanced at her and the biggest roach I’d ever seen—and I’d seen my share—had perched itself on her head. Another climbed up one of her curls. Something furry sat on a garbage bag behind her. My hand landed in something gooey and I jumped, knocking into another bag that broke open spilling garbage over both of us. Chantilly peered at me, eyes horrified.
“I won’t tell what’s crawling on you if you don’t tell me.” I whispered.
I peeled lettuce from my nose and peeked over the edge to the empty cruiser, lights still strobing, no one around. Taking hold of Old Yeller, I hoisted one leg over the edge, then slid down the side of the Dumpster, Chantilly landing beside me. Breathing hard, we flattened ourselves against the building and I glanced down the alley to make sure no cops were coming late to the party. Sidestepping our way around the edge of the building, I peeked to the front now congested with cruisers and sleepy people wandering out onto the sidewalk.
We ducked behind a line of azaleas, all foliage and no flowers this time of year. “We need to look natural,” I said knocking a palmetto bug and her family from Chantilly’s shoulder as she did some swiping at my hair.
Chantilly swallowed. “Natural? We’re covered in garbage and other things I don’t want to even think about that are gross and horrible and terrifying and we smell like a sewer.”
Actually we smelled way worse than a sewer. I got a stick and flicked a long-haired crawly from Chantilly’s shorts. She took the stick from my hand and whacked at my back. “Do you think the cops are looking for us?”
“Maybe.” Before she could ask more questions with bad answers I took her hand and ran down another alley of garbage cans, dark windows, and a dog. Not a sweet mini-something who escaped from his loving owner and wanted to go home, but a street dog, saliva drooling from his mouth and pissed that we were on his turf.
“This is what happens when you run from the cops,” Chantilly sniffed, tears in her eyes. “The gods line up against you and you get eaten alive by something with big teeth.” Step by step we backed up, dog following with his head down, eyes focused, licking his chops.
“Last time this happ
ened I had a package of shrimp and fed an alligator.”
“Alligator?”
“It’s been a rough week.” I scooped the remains of a mangled taco off my shorts. “Here doggie, doggie, doggie. Here it is, the great surprise.”
Crouched and ready for attack, doggie came closer, our gazes met, his on fire for me and not in a lovey-dovey way. I tossed down the taco and the dog lunged for it as Chantilly and I ran past him to the Jeep across the street. Chantilly beeped the car open and we scrambled inside, collapsing in the seats, gasping for air. I stomped on a roachy thing that fell off one of us.
“My car will never be the same.”
“Just hang one of those little air freshener things from your mirror and you’ll be fine.”
“This is a nightmare.” Chantilly whammed a bug with her fists, the impact popping the glove compartment open. “I’ll never be fine again.” She charged up the Jeep as a tear slid down her face cutting across a smear of gravy, or another brown sticky substance I didn’t have the courage to name.
“Hey, we’re going to find this killer. We have more to go on now. My guess is that Suellen saw who murdered Simon and was trying to blackmail him or her. They wouldn’t pay up and killed her instead.”
“She should have just gone to the police.”
“That’s withholding evidence and blackmail, both big no-no’s in the world of Detective Ross and others with shiny badges. The killer followed Suellen to Simon’s and killed her. Then the killer used Suellen’s phone to text you. You’re on the ropes for Simon’s murder. You’re an easy target to take the rap for the second. My guess is that your phone number is in the missing notebook that the killer has. Setting you up to take the fall for killing Suellen was a piece of cake.”
Chantilly pulled up in front of my house. “Where do we go from here? Any great ideas?”
“I’ll talk to Sugar-Ray tomorrow. He could have easily dressed in the bridesmaid dress and killed Simon. If Suellen was trying to blackmail him, he didn’t have the money to pay her off. He’s a good place to start.”
