Dead Man Walker

by Duffy Brown

  “Lordy, you’re right as rain, I hadn’t thought of that. I just wanted that there gun is all. You’ll let me know what you find? I can’t let this go, Walker, it wouldn’t be right. This is Savannah, family takes care of family.” She stared off then turned back. “You’re really getting an application for the club?”

  “I’m already getting comments on my jeans.”

  “Well, I’ll be. You must have made some impression.”

  “I did my best.” I watched Steffy Lou hurry off then turned back to see Reagan racing up the main stairway. What happened to the days when women stayed home and did whatever women did when they stayed home?

  “Don’t you think a waitress running in the main hall just might draw attention?” I said to Reagan, taking her hand and pulling her into Dixon’s office.

  “It’s Savannah. Chances are good someone’s in desperate need of a martini fast, and why didn’t you wait for me?” She wheezed, gasping for air.

  “You need to get to the gym.”

  “What I need is a car.”

  “What about getting a phone?”

  “I can’t haul with a phone. If I get a car I can get shop supplies, pick up furniture—”

  “Do the drive-through at Green Tea Restaurant for an egg roll and crab Rangoon.”

  “There is that.”

  Least she had the decency to blush and . . . and Reagan looked cute when she blushed. She always looked cute. Even that time in the swamp with the alligator ready to eat her she looked cute. No wonder the gator wanted her for dinner; truth be told the thought had crossed my mind a time or two, not that I had chance to think about that right now.

  Somehow I had to get Reagan out of here. The gold digger sisters may want Mercedes to clean their house and pimp out their men to meet their Maker, but the fact that Dixon was into Adkins for some serious cash put Dixon at the top of the get rid of Conway Adkins list.

  “You know,” I said to Reagan trying for the nothing’s-going-on-here-approach to murder and mayhem. “Now that I think about it, Dixon didn’t do in Conway, it doesn’t add up. Murdering someone just to be president is over the top.”

  Reagan folded her arms across the black-and-white waitress uniform, pulling the material snug, really snug, the button on the top ready to pop and . . . and please don’t pop!

  “What if Mister Over the Top is flat broke,” Reagan said. “The president position pays good, and I overheard Dixon on the phone saying he needed more time to get money together. I didn’t catch what the money was for but . . . but . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “You knew about him needing money, didn’t you?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “You rat! What else do you know and there’s something because your left eye’s twitching and you’re sweating. You never sweat. You’re calm and cool while the rest of us run around with our hair on fire.”

  Right now the only thing not on fire was my hair. “Dixon owed Conway money,” I blurted because I had to say something and try to focus on anything besides Reagan and that button.

  “That gives Dixon double motive for knocking off Conway,” I rambled on, trying to get my act together. “But if there was anything incriminating in Dixon’s office he wouldn’t leave it unlocked, so we’re wasting our time and we really, really need to get the heck out of here.”

  “Unless Dixon stashed the gun or the IOU somewhere,” Reagan said, gazing around.

  What the heck happened to getting out of here! Her blue eyes danced with excitement. Good God in heaven, if there was one thing I did not need right now it was dancing and excitement connected with Reagan. Okay, that makes two things.

  “I don’t know where Dixon lives,” Reagan said. “But this whole building we’re standing in is older than dirt, haunted by five generations of Campbells and their cats before it became the Plantation Club. It has a ton of hiding places. Auntie KiKi said that the Summersides and other families hid their silver here when the Yankees came a calling so they couldn’t get their grubby little hands on it. We need to look around before Dixon knows we’re on to him. I bet that gun’s right under our noses, we just got to find it.”

  “What gun?”

  “Uh, the one that killed Conway? The murder weapon? Are you having some kind of breakdown?”

  “Probably.”

  The doorknob turned. Dixon? Or someone else looking for a murder weapon? Or maybe some guy wanting to get another look at Reagan in that blasted uniform.

  Chapter Five

  It occurred to me that in two days I’d hidden under two desks with two Summerside women. They might be different in age but they were dead on in stubbornness. The problem was that this time around under the desk the owner wasn’t sprawled naked in a tub in another room, but three feet away and could be a killer. The other problem was that Dixon was talking on his phone, showed no signs of leaving, and Reagan’s leg was wedged between mine, her front smashed to my back, her breath hot on my neck. If I got out of this alive I was getting neutered.

  And all this was for nothing. We were stuffed under here in a really small space and were not going to find the IOU or a gun or . . . or holy freaking cow. A shaft of light slicing though the window landed on the barrel of a Smith and Wesson 638 duct-taped to the bottom of the desk drawer right over my head. I doubted Reagan could see it with me in the way.

  A .38 was the gun of choice in snuffing Conway. Then again .38 Specials were common fare in Savannah and every place else. Heck, I had one in my office. What I didn’t have was motive for killing Conway and Dixon did. If Dixon was the shooter there was nothing to keep him from killing Reagan and me right here and now and making use of those secret passages and hiding places Reagan mentioned. That was not going to happen.

  “Hi there,” I said scrambling from under the desk and shoving Reagan farther back hoping that for once in her life she kept her mouth shut. “Got any Plantation Club applications sitting around here? I’ve been looking all over for one. I think I want in. Great coffee and I hear the crab cakes are something else.” I headed for the door knowing Dixon would follow me.

  “You! What? How?” Dixon’s eyes bulged. “Snooping in my office? I am calling the police this time. You’re trespassing, breaking and entering.”

  I opened the office door. “You don’t want to call the police. With all the notoriety out there about Conway’s murder, the cops storming the club would just add to it. Bad publicity for the club is not what you want especially if you’re aiming to take Conway’s place as president. Which, let’s face it, you are.”

  I went into the hall, heading for the main stairs, Dixon running after me.

  “Who told you that?” Dixon insisted. I stopped and turned to face him as Reagan eased out of the office. She gave me a little finger wave—good grief—then tiptoed off in the other direction toward the service steps.

  “I found a letter at Conway’s house,” I said to keep Dixon’s attention. “It was a reprimand for missing meetings. Seems Conway had better things to do.”

  “That man gave out Sassicaia wine at two-hundred-and-twenty dollars a bottle to get members to vote for him to be president. He did it for fun, it was nothing but a lark. He doesn’t care about the club.”

  “You signed the letter.”

  “As did others.” Dixon fumed as Reagan turned the corner to the stairs.

  “With Conway out of the picture you’re in the picture and you owe him money. Make that ‘owed him money.’ How convenient. Conway’s death is a pretty good deal for you, Mr. Dixon.”

  His face reddened, angry lines across his forehead. If he didn’t get a hold of himself something was going to rupture. “You spread this malicious rumor and you’ll be sorry, you hear me. I know people.”

  “Lucky them.” I handed Dixon my business card. “You can drop that application in the mail. Have a good day now, ya hear.”

  I trotted down the
steps, feeling Dixon’s gaze boring into my back. Dishing out all that info wasn’t a great idea. I knew not to let the other guy know what was going on, but this time it couldn’t be helped. Shock and surprise was one surefire way of getting Dixon zeroed in on me and getting Reagan out of the office. If Dixon had found us who knows what would have happened. One gun meant he had others—it was the Savannah way—and I couldn’t take the chance of a bad situation getting a lot worse, not with Reagan around.

  I exited the front door of the club, the cute redhead at the reception desk giving me a smile, a little nod, and another look at my jeans that she seemed to appreciate a lot more than Dixon did. I took the steps to street level and phoned Dinky. I had a seven o’clock appointment with two men about their wives, Anna and Bella, and an eight o’clock tomorrow with an attorney from a big firm in town.

  My guess was that Anna and Bella ratted me out because I didn’t play nice with them and now I was getting the do not mess with our women speech. The big question was would there be gunfire involved to drive home the point. Then there was the meeting with the big dogs tomorrow. Those were never good, especially at eight in the morning. Usually somebody was suing someone with me in the middle.

  The only suing I had on the docket at the moment was a bridezilla whose fiancé walked out the day before the wedding. She was suing everyone in sight, including me for not getting big enough settlements. I tried to tell her she’d dodged a bullet and that her to-be husband was a jerk, but a rotting bridal bouquet left on my doorstep suggested she wasn’t buying it.

  I crossed over to Orleans Square, the fountain in the middle splashing away. I sidestepped a tour guide and her merry followers then Reagan yanked me down onto one of the stone benches. “What the heck do you think you were doing? I can take care of myself, you know.” She poked herself in the chest for emphasis. “I don’t need you or anyone else to save me . . . most of the time.”

  She was back in her shop clothes of capris and a blouse, her hair down, loose, looking like it didn’t care, her yellow-ugly perched on her lap. A grin slipped across her mouth, her really lovely mouth that . . . that I had no interest in at all!

  “But I got to say,” she went on. “That the club application idea was inspired. Dixon nearly had an aneurysm in his own office and . . . it gave me a way out.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Too bad we didn’t find the gun and IOU.”

  Okay, now what? Did I tell Reagan about the gun to scare her into keeping away from Dixon? If I mentioned the .38 she’d be storming back into the club to get it. If I didn’t tell her about the gun she’d probably go in anyway looking for it. “Don’t you have a shop to run?”

  Reagan jumped up. “Holy cats. KiKi’s going to kill me! She has a meeting of the Daughters of the Confederacy out at Sweet Marsh Country Club at noon. I got to go.”

  “That gives her twenty minutes.”

  “KiKi’ll make it.”

  And that’s exactly what I and the rest of Savannah were afraid of.

  “I can drop you, my car’s across the street.” I nodded to the other side of the square where I’d parked the Chevy, top down, the perfect ride for a spring afternoon. I handed Reagan my phone. “Call KiKi and tell her not to panic that you’ll be there in five.”

  I started across the street, Reagan following and punching in KiKi’s number as a silver SUV barreled around the corner. The front fender grazed my side as Reagan yanked me back, both of us tumbling into the street in a heap, me on top, Reagan facedown, her blonde hair against my cheek. My heart stopped. My insides went to jelly. “Reagan!”

  “You’re welcome,” she mumbled.

  My heart kicked back up and I promised the Lord he’d see my sorry white butt in church on Sunday. Thank you, Jesus!

  An elderly man helped me sit up, a young guy helped Reagan.

  “I tell you,” the elderly gentleman said to the gathering crowd, “the tourists drive like maniacs in this city. None of ’em know how to go around these squares without killing someone. Bet they’re all Yankees. Are you okay, mister?” he asked me.

  Reagan had a scrape on her arm and one on her leg and her blouse had a tear, but that was it. We started for the car, Reagan moving a little slow and me about the same. “Are you sure you’re okay,” I asked her.

  “I landed on Old Yeller.”

  “The book?”

  “The purse.”

  She slid it off her arm and we inspected it together. “Not a scratch anywhere,” I said. “What’s this purse made of?”

  “Luck.”

  I sat Reagan in the Chevy, then climbed behind the wheel and turned over the motor. “That was no tourist,” Reagan said in a low. quiet voice as I backed out onto Barnard Street.

  “I know.” I stopped for the pedestrians in the crosswalk. “I think I might have ruffled a few feathers.”

  Reagan put her hand on my arm. “Lawyer boy, I’d say you did something and wound up plucking the whole darn bird. What is this all about?”

  “Mercedes? Conway? I’m not sure.” And that was the truth.

  When we got to the Cherry House, the official name of Reagan’s Victorian because of the big cherry tree in the front yard, customers were strolling up the sidewalk to shop as Bruce Willis galloped down. He leaped into the car, tail wagging, licking my face and making me feel like a million bucks as only dogs can.

  I got a be careful speech from Reagan, the kind I usually gave to her then I backtracked to the office. I parked Chevy and found Big Joey sitting on the steps with a nondescript white plastic bag in front of him. I sat on the next step, barely squelching a groan. “Tricks ’cue?”

  “Got that right.” Big Joey opened the bag and pulled out two Cokes and two Styrofoam containers from Tricks. Without looking I knew they each held a half-slab of ribs and chicken smothered in the best barbecue sauce on the plant, potato salad, beans with little chunks of ham, and a dinner roll.

  “You’re bleeding,” Big Joey said around a mouthful of rib. He nodded at my shirt, a red stain on the side.

  “Not as much as I could be.” I chomped into the chicken, little dots of sublime ecstasy dancing in front of my eyes. “Reagan called you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Somethin’ about you skinning a bird and tire marks.” Big Joey took a long draw of his Coke. “What’s going down . . . besides you?” A grin slid across his lips covered in sauce.

  “Funny boy.” I grinned back. “This all started with Mercedes but it’s gotten real personal real quick and somehow it’s tied to me and Conway kicking the bucket.”

  Big Joey took a sporkful of green beans. “Think this be the part where I say ‘told ya so.’”

  I tore into a rib, the sauce dripping off my fingers like all great ’cue does. “A guy owed Conway money,” I said. “And he knows I’m on to him. He’s got good reason to get rid of both of us but he’s got company in that department. Two sisters want Mercedes to housekeep for them. Me and Conway out at Bonaventure Cemetery opens two cleaning spots for them with Mercedes.”

  Big Joey let out a deep laugh that came all the way from his toes and seemed to rumble clear up the steps. “That be the Gold Diggers. Gotta watch your back with those two if they got you in their sights.” He took a bite of potato salad. “Could be you getting mowed down and Mr. C dead in the tub not connected? He got stuff going on, you got stuff going on.”

  Joey licked sauce off his thumb. “A brother valets at Olde Harbor Inn. A high roller from Charleston staying on the premises got the hots to buy the place, Conway not selling. If this dude knocked off Conway that put sonny boy, Tucker, in the driver’s seat. Sonny boy be liking sailboats, not putting mints on pillows. He’d sell to Charleston before his daddy get a proper tombstone. Maybe this guy knocked off Conway?”

  I stopped a chicken leg halfway to my mouth. “Charleston? Is the guy Grayden Russell?”
r />   “You tight?” Big Joey handed me a napkin.

  “He’s after the Tybee Island theater. I told him it wasn’t happening. Eliminate Conway and Russell gets the inn. Get rid of me and it’s a warning to the rest of the theater committee to sell him the theater or else.” I glanced at Big Joey over my green beans. “Why the inn and the theater? There are other properties for sale in Savannah and on the island. What’s this guy into?”

  “We got intrigue.” Joey finished off his chicken. “We need face time with Russell.”

  “We?”

  “The valet’s my man, and Reagan have my head if I don’t keep watch, and for the record that be Joseph Jefferson.”

  “Who’s Joseph Jefferson?” I asked as we shoved our debris in the bag and I popped a cinnamon Altoid to offset barbecue breath.

  Big Joey stuck out his chest and pointed to himself, a big toothy grin on his face. “Stellar baby name when needed. Just saying.”

  Chapter Six

  Olde Harbor Inn’s maroon awnings flapped in the breeze, the cream stucco facade bright against the blue sky. The inn sat at the end of Factors Walk, a long row of brick building sandwiched between Bay Street and River Street and overlooking the Savannah River. Joey parked and we took one of the short footbridges with metal grating that spanned the narrow stone street below, where back in the day wagons laden with mounds of cotton passed and factors called out bids from above.

  “Yo,” the young valet dressed in maroon slacks and cream vest called out to Big Joey. Not the usual greeting to a guest, meaning he and Joey were close, probably a new Seventeenth Street kid. The Seventeenth Street boys weren’t saints by any stretch, but they kept guns away from schools, parks, and tourists, and drugs off the street—something cops could never do by themselves. Seventeenth took care of their own and saved more than one kid around here, I knew that firsthand.

  “Russell’s hanging by the docks,” Big Joey said after talking with the valet and straightening the kid’s tie. “Likes water.”