Killer in Crinolines

by Duffy Brown

  The rain let up, leaving the city neon-shiny with lights reflecting off puddles, wet streets, and sidewalks. After my trek all the way to Seventeenth Street and adventures in the hood, I looked like something the cat dragged in so I couldn’t use the hot-slut routine with Beau to gain access to the condo building. I went with drunk and toasted. I waited till a weaving young male occupant meandered his way up to the front door with a to-go cup in hand, accessed the code, then I quietly slipped in behind him.

  I got to Simon’s condo and stopped at the yellow crime-scene tape across the door. Last time in here I found a dead body, the time before it was assault with a near-deadly bookcase. Bad juju. I opened the door. Surely the police locked up? More bad juju? Stepping between the crisscross of plastic tape, I went inside and flipped the lights. I ignored the little yellow numbered tents marking where the body and trophy had been. Suellen dead once was enough. I rounded the leather couch, a Snickers wrapper on the floor. Sweet mother in heaven! I gave KiKi that Snickers. “KiKi!” I yelled.

  I ran in the dining room, then the kitchen, flipping on lights as I went, my heart tight in my chest, my legs like rubber. Why didn’t she answer? I stopped dead in Simon’s bedroom, KiKi’s blue straw bag hanging on the far closet doorknob, a chair jammed under to keep it closed. I kicked the chair out of the way and flung the door open to a stack of boxes. Period. No auntie. Putting my hand to my head I leaned against the jamb to catch my breath. Bull Street, Snickers, closed closet, blue purse meaning KiKi should be here. A breeze ruffled through my hair and I looked up to an opening in the ceiling.

  See, this is what I meant about not sitting still. Could my dear wonderful auntie just wait here till I came to get her? Heck no! She had to go all Indiana Jones on me and escape or at least try to. “KiKi? Where the heck are you!”

  I parked Old Yeller on the floor and kicked off my flip-flops. I gazed up at the black opening in the ceiling. I sucked at sitting still. I sucked more at getting into small spaces with little light. I think it came from reading scary stories under the covers by flashlight for all those years.

  The opening looked so tiny. Very dark and tiny. I started to sweat. Breathing was hard. Losing KiKi would be worse, much worse. I gulped in a few deep breaths, to clear my head, and climbed the boxes. I reached into the dark abyss. If something bit me, I’d die of heart failure or maybe rabies. Balancing on the top box I stuck my head through to see KiKi’s shoes at the side and a window at the far end lit from the alley below. I was hot on KiKi’s trail and figured I was about a minute’s shimmy away from the window, the only place KiKi could be. Okay, I could do this.

  Belly-scooting across the floor, I counted seconds, telling myself I was getting closer, forcing myself to think of something other than being in a small, dark, smelly space. All of these buildings were well over a hundred and fifty years old and had been used during the war as hospitals, barracks, brothels. At the very least, this floor was covered in bat poop; at worse I’d come across a dead Union soldier. Savannah folk didn’t take kindly to having Yankees in their midst. Not a pleasant thought but sure got my mind off small, dark, and smelly.

  I yanked open the window at the end and siphoned in a lungful of fresh air. Peering over the side, I caught sight of an old rusted fire escape that snaked up a bricked-in side of the building that had once sported windows and now sported KiKi. “Lordy, woman, what in the world are you doing out there!”

  “Why there you are, honey.” KiKi grinned up at me, dirty faced. She stood on one rung and held on to another, then waved.

  “Both hands, KiKi! For the love of God, both hands!”

  “Been a while since I did something like this. Cher would be mighty proud. Good thing it’s nighttime. Some scalawag could be looking right up my dress given a chance.”

  “I think I’ve been insulted,” came a voice from below and unfortunately I knew that particular voice.

  “Boone?”

  He stepped into the light. “Half the city’s out looking for you two. Pillsbury’s having an aneurism that you went missing on his watch; Big Joey had to give him mouth-to-mouth. Wish I’d been around to see that one.”

  Ignoring my sage advice of hold on, KiKi waved at Boone. “Can you take my picture with your phone, honey? This will look great on my Facebook page. I hate that timeline thing, don’t you?”

  Boone raked his fingers though his hair, looking exhausted. “Miss KiKi, why are you out here . . .” His eyes widened, his voice trailing off, then I heard it too, the grunt of old steel under duress.

  “KiKi!” Boone and I yelled together. “Get down,” Boone added. “Put a move on.”

  “Oh, Lordy, this here contraption’s moving right under me.” KiKi gripped the rungs, the fire escape lurching.

  “It’s not going to hold. Jump for it!” Boone yelled. “You’re about twelve feet up. I’ll catch you.”

  “Do it,” I said, the top brackets by me tearing free.

  “Well, I do declare.” KiKi kicked one leg over the edge just like those Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall then kicked the other. “Geronimo!”

  She jumped, Boone breaking her fall just as the fire escape tore completely loose. Boone rolled out of the way taking KiKi with him, the tangle of metal crashing down beside him. My gaze connected with Boone’s though the darkness, a string of Seventeenth Street expletives filling the air ending with, “Holy crap!”

  Boone sat up and helped KiKi off the ground. “The cops will be here any minute,” he called up to me. “You’re interfering in a crime scene. Get out of there.”

  That meant another trip back though the dark hole of Calcutta. The alternative was a trip back to the smelly room of the police station. I closed the window, scooted back though the poop, snagged KiKi’s shoes, then dropped down into the closet. I slipped on my shoes, grabbed Old Yeller, ran for the front door, then doubled back and snagged KiKi’s blue straw purse. Sirens pulled to a stop at the front of the building just like last time, and I turned for the back entrance, a police officer coming right toward me. Was this better or worse than the Dumpster?

  Think, Reagan, think! “Why, mercy me,” I said, scrambling for an explanation as to why I was here in the hall, purse in hand and filthy. Make that two purses in hand and an extra pair of shoes. I slid KiKi’s things behind my back and said, “I just heard the most awful noise outside.”

  “You live here?”

  “Third floor.”

  The officer tipped his hat to the back of his head, his look critical. “There’re only two floors in this building.”

  “Why see there, I’m flustered by all this commotion and can’t even remember where I live.” I pointed to the door. “You best hurry, something terrible’s going on out there, I just know it. Sure was a big crash. Bet it’s that C-4 stuff that blows things up on TV all the time. What’s this city coming to?”

  The officer did an eye roll then headed for the back entrance. I followed him out the door, looking all interested till Boone yanked me behind the stand of azaleas, KiKi beside him. She slid on her shoes and without saying a word we crept toward the alley, KiKi limping and Boone helping her along. He flashed a smile at the local attack dog and I swear the dog smiled right back at him, not so much as a hint of a growl anywhere. We stepped onto the sidewalk and I felt ten years older than I had that morning.

  KiKi kissed Boone on the cheek. “My hero.”

  I was sure Boone wanted nothing more than to shake me till my teeth rattled but instead he said to KiKi, “Happy to be of service, ma’am.”

  “Where’s the Beemer?” I asked, the three of us piling into Boone’s convertible without one word about getting white upholstery dirty. If it had been just me in the car, I’d be relegated to the trunk.

  “My guess is your car’s in your garage,” Boone offered as one who knew about such things. “Whoever got you in that condo didn’t want the cops involved. If you go to the police telling what happened, you’re in trouble for crossing the yellow crime tape.”

>   “How did you wind up at Simon’s condo in the first place?” I asked KiKi, Boone pulling away from the curb into light traffic. “You were supposed to be going home for a phone call, remember?”

  KiKi dug around in her purse. “There was this note on my car. Wouldn’t you know it the thing’s not here now. It was a yellow sheet off one of those legal pads and said something like Have proof Chantilly’s innocent. Meet you at Simon’s. There were some numbers to get inside the front door. I figured it was on the up-and-up. Why else involve me?”

  I could hear Boone’s teeth grinding all the way in the backseat.

  “But when I got there,” KiKi went on, “someone shoved me into that there closet and grabbed my purse. It was so dark I couldn’t make out who it was and then they locked the door on me. I waited for a bit, knowing someone would come looking, but I had to use the girl’s room something fierce after that strawberry martini. I found the opening in the ceiling.”

  KiKi tsked. “Putter’s going to be mighty upset I missed his call. Like Cher says, Husbands are like fires, they go out when left unattended. My plan was to get the information from Simon’s place, then be on my way back to the house in time for Putter’s call.”

  “About that,” I said. “I told Uncle Putter you did an emergency fill-in for the canasta club.”

  “I can work with that. Say I twisted my foot on Sally Newton’s stairs. Those things have been in need of fixing for years and she’s just too cheap to part with the money to have it done. I sure don’t want Putter to know about tonight or he’ll put one of those ankle monitors on me and I’ll never get beyond the mailbox.”

  The three of us trooped into KiKi’s house, and BW did the happy doggie dance around Boone. “Putter’s always wanted to go to Pebble Beach, that fancy golf course out in California. I’ll tell him I’ve made plans, that’ll take his mind off the phone call.” KiKi cast a look at Boone. “Think that will work?”

  Boone sat KiKi in a chair and elevated her leg. “Men are easy. All you have to do is show up wearing a smile. If you bring along a bucket of chicken and a six-pack, so much the better.”

  I put ice in a baggie for a makeshift cold pack, then wrapped it in a towel. I put it on KiKi’s swollen ankle and nearly threw up. I could have lost her.

  “You okay, honey,” KiKi patted my hand. “You’re looking kind of peaked all of a sudden.”

  “Tea,” I said because I had to say something. “We need tea.”

  Truth be told, I could do with another hit of Pillsbury’s scotch. I went on autopilot and filled the blue kettle. Boone located cups and saucers and set them out along with the sugar bowl and spooner that held KiKi’s sterling spoons collected over the years.

  “What was all this foolishness tonight about anyway?” KiKi asked. “Whoever locked me in that closet had to realize you would find me sooner or later.”

  “It was a warning,” Boone offered, rhythmically dunking his tea bag. “Someone’s not happy with Sherlock and her dancing sidekick prowling around in their affairs. They wanted to tell you to buzz off.”

  “And that’s exactly what’s going to happen,” I said as evenly as I could without bursting into tears. KiKi’s cup clinked to the saucer, and I knew I was in for an argument. “Look,” I said, beating her to the punch. “I’m getting nowhere with all these questions and causing a lot of problems for everyone. It’s over. The police can handle this. I’m making things worse for everyone.”

  KiKi put her hands flat on the table and scowled. “That there’s crazy talk. We can’t stop now when it’s just getting interesting.” She stifled a yawn. “But I’m plum tuckered out right now. I’m calling it a day, children.” She took a sip of tea, then grabbed her ice pack. “I need to phone Putter and save him a plane flight home. You two lock up when you leave. Try not to behave yourselves.”

  I watched KiKi shuffle off toward the steps and felt a tear slide down my cheek.

  “I know you,” Boone said, standing beside me. “You’re not giving this up. Someone messes with your family and you’re not going to just forget it happened.”

  I picked up the cups and took them to the sink. “Thank you for saving KiKi like you did. That was really sweet. Tell Pillsbury I’m sorry I worried him tonight but if one of his own was in trouble he’d do the same thing I did, except he’d probably do it a lot better.”

  Boone put his hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eyes. “Reagan, you need to talk to Ross, tell her what you think. See if she’ll look into it.”

  “According to Detective Ross, she has the killer and there’s nothing more to look at, end of story. But now I have something else to go on. Whoever got KiKi into Simon’s apartment knew the access code and had a connection to him.”

  Boone collected the saucers. “Or has my tax gal. Your little speech about the case being over was for KiKi’s sake, wasn’t it? You should be the one wearing the ankle monitor.”

  I stacked the dishwasher, then leaned against the counter trying to put pieces together. Boone turned a kitchen chair around and sat backward like guys do. “So now what?” he asked.

  “The idea that Suellen saw the killer and wanted money to keep quiet makes sense.”

  “But?”

  “How do you know there’s a but?”

  “You’re flipping your hair.”

  I folded my arms so I wouldn’t do any more flipping. If Boone hadn’t saved KiKi, I wouldn’t tell him squat. He’d find holes in my theory and try to talk me out of doing anything other than selling clothes and visiting Chantilly every other Thursday. But Boone did save KiKi. Why did it always wind up this way, me owing him and not the other way around? “Why do you care about any of this?” I asked him.

  “Your stirring up trouble has collateral damage. I want to know what’s coming my way.”

  “Before GracieAnn worked at the Cakery Bakery, she was a barmaid down at Wet Willies and fed Simon clients for his loan-sharking venture. I think Suellen did the same thing from the Pirate House. The three of them were in the business together, that’s their connection, though I think GracieAnn had a crush on Simon. When he dumped her for Chantilly and then for Waynetta, GracieAnn was irate and bitter and depressed and Delta took her in at the bakery. It didn’t matter to Suellen that Simon went for Waynetta. All Suellen was interested in was the money.”

  “And when Simon died, why let a very lucrative business she’d helped establish go down the tubes.” Boone gave me a long look across the short distance between us. “That night at Simon’s place, when you got the bookcase pushed over on you, you weren’t admiring Simon’s big plasma TV.”

  “There was a notebook, Simon’s records as best I can figure. Someone knocked over the bookcase and took the notebook. Suellen maybe or GracieAnn.”

  Boone shook his head. “Suellen’s the one in the morgue. That points to GracieAnn knocking her off.”

  “Unless there’s something else in those records worth killing for. Like maybe information about a golf course?”

  Boone went perfectly still, his expression lawyer-blank. “How do you know about the golf course?”

  Well, dang. Pay dirt! “A little birdie told me?”

  “Forget this. Forget the golf course. Forget it exists.”

  “Because it doesn’t.” I took in Boone’s forever five o’clock shadow, short black hair, eyes darker than midnight, and could easily imagine the build under his navy polo. Boone’s face was unreadable but there was always that barely contained hum of danger just under the surface. You can take the boy out of the hood but the hood’s always a few short blocks away. “Why did you leave Seventeenth Street? Lose your bad-boy streak?”

  A menacing spark lit his eyes, that half smile back on his lips. The bad boy was alive and well, he just stayed out of sight, usually. “Watch your step, Reagan.”

  “You never give me a straight answer.”

  “I just did.” Boone made a two-finger salute, kissed BW on the snout, and left.

  I dropped one of those
green soap cubes in the dishwasher, wiped off the table, then stood at the bottom of the steps and listened to make sure KiKi was okay. A soft voice and giggles drifted down from her bedroom. I guess it was never too late for phone sex. BW and I headed across the side yard serenaded by late summer crickets and other things that sounded a lot nicer than they looked. I unlocked the kitchen door and went in, the peace of home-sweet-home wrapping around me like a warm, welcoming blanket after a hard day at the salt mine.

  “Yo, white woman. ’Bout time you show up.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  PILLSBURY stepped out of the shadows and gave BW a good rubdown. “What on earth are you doing here?” I ran my hand over my face to keep from fainting dead away and gulped in deep breaths. “Not that you’re unwelcome, but you scared the liver right out of me!”

  “Living a little lean here, babe. Your fridge is bare. Hot dogs? Nitrates? That stuff will kill you.”

  “They’re for BW. He’s addicted.”

  “Doggie abuse. An ice cream container? Ever hear of a bank?”

  “You came here to criticize my culinary and monetary skills?”

  “Among other things.” He took my hand and dropped a black phone in it. “Stay connected.”

  “Says who?”

  “Can’t have you running around without hookup. Your auntie went missing and you want to find who do the deed, I get that. If you’re in need of assistance.” He plopped a set of keys on top of the phone. “Wheels.”

  I handed back the phone and the car keys. “I thank you kindly, but you’ve done enough. I’m okay here.” I pictured my pants on fire after that big, fat lie.

  Pillsbury shoved a note at me. “On your door. Next time it’s for keeps. Don’t think this be in reference to a marriage proposal.”