Iced Chiffon

by Duffy Brown

  A red light came on in the front of the room, where the cops were holding my cheesecake hostage. A loudspeaker blared that visiting time was over.

  “Stay out of this, Reagan. I mean it. You’re going to make things even worse than they already are. Boone will take care of everything. He’s smart; he’ll find the killer.”

  And he probably would, I thought to myself as I left Hollis and followed the yellow line on the floor with the other visitors to the exit. But in the process, I’d lose my house for sure. I had my laundry list of suspects who could have knocked off Janelle, but Boone knew stuff too, stuff I could really use. The big question was how to get him to tell me.

  During the divorce, I was mad as a rat in a trap, and it showed. In those days, visions of Walker Boone’s head on a stake outside the courthouse gave me great comfort, and he was aware of that since I might have mentioned it a time or two. Now I was smarter, calmer. For sure I was over Hollis, and I could play Walker Boone to get what I wanted, right?

  I was Hollis’s ex and the one who found the body, so asking Boone a few questions was logical enough without making him suspect I was trying to find the killer. And since I spotted Boone walking across the parking lot at that very moment, now was as good a time as any to wheedle information. I slapped on my best Little Miss Innocent smile and set my brain to wheedling mode.

  Chapter Five

  WALKER Boone strode across the police parking lot as if he owned the place. He stopped twice to talk to police officers. Boone was a tough guy to figure, with gang connections, cop connections, and bedroom connections. That last connection was the constant talk of Savannah.

  No doubt Boone got information from all these sources, but I had Auntie KiKi, the dancing gossip queen, and Elsie and AnnieFritz, local funeral busybodies. My informants weren’t nearly as colorful as Boone’s, but I figured they were just as good.

  “Here to see Hollis?” Boone asked as he walked up next to me. “Who would have thought?”

  He had on jeans and a white button-down shirt, rolled at the sleeves, and he looked like Robert Downey Jr. on a good day. Not that I cared. I still wanted his head on that stake. “I know Hollis is innocent, and it would be a pity for him to go to jail.”

  “A year ago you wanted him neutered.”

  “Still not a bad idea, but I’m over Hollis and want justice done. I brought him cheesecake.”

  “From Sugar Daddy’s?”

  “Is there anyplace else?”

  Boone folded his arms across his chest, which was sculpted by frequent trips to the gym or duking it out at the bars on the West Side. “So did Hollis tell you what you wanted to know about Franklin?”

  I did the arched eyebrow to enhance my innocent act. “The reverend?”

  “Unless you know another Franklin?” Boone gave me the smile that said he knew something I didn’t. I’d seen a lot of that smile in the last two years. “You and Miss KiKi were at the family-values rally last night, and unless the two of you developed a religious streak, I suspect you know about Janelle and her extracurricular activities.”

  “Activities?” I repeated, putting the emphasis on the final s.

  “Answering questions with questions; your mamma taught you well.” Boone’s expression turned serious, his eyes dark and ominous, like yesterday, when he told Hollis to keep his mouth shut. “I don’t know who the killer is, but he’ll kill again to cover his tracks, Reagan. If you’re in his way, it won’t be pretty.”

  I willed myself not to run off like some scared little rabbit. I had a house to protect. And I had a business to run, maybe. “And just how much do I owe you for this extraordinary piece of information? Three hundred dollars? Four hundred?”

  “Meaning…?”

  “Meaning Hollis is selling Cherry House to pay you, and I’m keeping track of the bill. How much do I owe you so far?”

  “Cherry House?”

  “My Victorian, in various stages of repair.” Or disrepair, depending on how you looked at it.

  “I didn’t know about the house.”

  “Well, you do now, and if I get in your way while trying to figure out who really did kill Janelle, you’ll have to just live with it.”

  “The critical word is live. Go home and wallpaper something.”

  “You go home and wallpaper something. You and Hollis got everything in the divorce, but things are different this time around. You’re not holding all the cards.” I headed for the bus stop, my stomach in knots. I had found out nothing from Boone and hadn’t the foggiest notion what in blazes he was up to. So much for me playing Walker Boone. Then again, he hadn’t played me either.

  I needed a sandwich. Something yummy and comforting without the benefit of veggies and low-cal dressing. I always felt better with a sandwich in hand; didn’t everyone? I walked the three blocks to Parkers, the only gourmet gas station in Savannah—probably in all of the South for that matter. Back in the day, when I had a car, I could get a tank of Chevron and a meat-loaf sandwich with provolone cheese so tasty I’d seen grown men cry at the first bite. I couldn’t really afford a sandwich after splurging on Hollis’s cheesecake, but I needed comfort food after dealing with Boone. During the divorce I’d put on five pounds using that particular piece of logic.

  I took my sandwich to go, caught the bus, and got off by Hollis’s office. Maybe IdaMae knew where Cupcake might have kept important things like a will, an insurance policy, a picture of Franklin and Sissy playing tonsil hockey.

  “Goodness me,” IdaMae said as I came through the door, nearly colliding with her. “Reagan, honey, I wasn’t expecting you. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Are you off to lunch?” I asked, spotting IdaMae’s pocketbook in her hand. I held up my Parkers bag and made it do a little dance in the air. “I brought lunch to you. We can share.”

  “Oh, I’d just love that. I truly would.” She studied the bag. “It’s meat loaf, isn’t it? Nobody does a meat-loaf sandwich like Parkers. But I’m off to show a house up on East Huntington to potential buyers.”

  “You’re showing a house?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. This nice man said he and his wife wanted to see the place. I need to keep the office going for Hollis, and I’ve been the secretary here long enough to know the ropes. I got my real-estate license some years back so I could keep up with all that happens around here. Do you think I can do this?” IdaMae stood straight and tall, showing off her blue suit. “How do I look?”

  “Very professional, and I think you’ll be great at showing houses. I know I’d buy a house from you.”

  She blushed and checked her watch. “Oh dear, I’m gong to be late.” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “Wish me luck, honey. I’m so excited.”

  “Do you have any idea where Janelle might have kept her personal papers? Maybe she had an insurance policy, and if it was big, maybe the beneficiary had motive to kill her.”

  IdaMae flipped off the office lights and reached for the doorknob. “I think Hollis was her insurance policy. I overheard her talking to her mamma once on the phone, and she said being with Hollis would make her rich. Maybe she knew something about the revival of the real-estate market that we didn’t. Hollis has every penny sunk into keeping the office open. A few times he had to cover my paycheck from his own personal account. These have been some tough times around here, I can tell you that.”

  She air-kissed my cheek. “I plan on visiting Hollis tomorrow. Would you like me to go and water those plants at his place? He said he tried to call you, but your phone is disconnected.”

  “If you keep the agency going, the least I can do is take care of things at the town house.” It would give me a chance to see if Cupcake stashed what she had on Franklin there. Not that I held out much hope on that score. With Hollis living there too, it didn’t seem likely I’d find much incriminating information lying around.

  “Did Dinah Corwin come to your place?” IdaMae asked as we stepped out onto the stoop. Little white petals from the cr
abapple tree at the corner fluttered over us like soft, fragrant snow. This was as close to snow as Savannah got, and that was just fine by me.

  IdaMae locked the door then added, “She came here looking for you, and when she said she needed a nice little black dress, I mentioned your shop. I heard all about your new place over at the Piggly Wiggly when I was waiting in the checkout line. Sounds like a fine idea, and the word is spreading. I think seeing it on TV when you went and found Janelle in the Lexus had something to do with it.”

  Well, I’ll be. Cupcake finally did something good for me, I thought as IdaMae added, “Did Dinah Corwin invite you to her wake for Janelle? I never heard of such a thing in all my life. Janelle was nothing but a two-bit floozy, taking Hollis from you the way she did. I can’t say I’m all that sorry she’s out of the picture.” IdaMae bit her bottom lip. “I just hope Walker Boone can catch the real killer.”

  I wished IdaMae luck with her showing, then walked the three blocks to my place. It was a perfect spring day, with the whole city smelling like warm earth and sunshine. I took the steps up the front porch just as Chantilly pulled her UPS truck to the curb. “How’s business?” she called from the door, wide open for quick grab-and–go package delivery.

  I gave her a thumbs–up sign and retraced my steps down the walkway. I leaned into the cab. “I need clothes to sell,” I said to her. “I’m nearly out of merchandise.”

  Chantilly turned in her seat. She had on her brown shorts uniform in honor of the warm day, and I noticed a small rose tattoo on the inside of her leg. A UPS driver with pizzazz. She eyed my Parkers bag. “You wouldn’t happen to have a meat-loaf sandwich in there, would you? I could put out the word and get you some mighty fine clothes here real quick for a meat-loaf sandwich from Parkers.”

  I was so hungry that my stomach thought my throat was cut. I forced myself to hand up the bag. “Extra provolone.”

  “Is there any other way?” She peered into the bag, and I caught a whiff of warm beef and seasonings smothered in cheese. A hint of drool formed at the corner of Chantilly’s lips.

  “When you put out the word, say it’s a consignment shop—I don’t have money to buy things outright. What do you think about a seventy-five, twenty-five split, with consigners getting the seventy-five?”

  Chantilly slid out the sandwich, unwrapped it, and took a bite, a chunk of provolone dropping on her leg. I swear it took every bit of self-control I had not to swipe up the cheese and eat it.

  Chantilly said around a mouthful, “That’s bad business, girlfriend. You need a fifty-fifty split. It’s their clothes but your shop, and you’re doing the work. You’ll have to come up with some kind of bookkeeping system and give people account numbers to keep track of what sells and how much you own them.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  She licked a glob of mayo from her finger, then pointed to the back of her truck. “It’s like the packages here. We keep track of where they go and who sends them by using numbers and accounts. We stick the information to the package and match it to delivery information we keep on file. We’re all computerized, but you can do the same thing with a notebook. You’ll have to devise a tagging system to tell what clothes belong to what customer, then mark the account when there’s a sale.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Lunchtime’s over.” She balanced the sandwich on her knee and put the truck in gear. She gave a little sandwich salute, then took off with my lunch.

  When hungry and broke, there was only one place to go, the free-food store. Translation: KiKi’s kitchen. I crossed the lawn and took the stone path that led through the rose wrought-iron gate to the backyard. Uncle Putter was bent over a golf ball, club in hand, meditating or whatever it was golfers did when trying to get a golf ball to accomplish a specific task. I tiptoed by so as not to interrupt the spiritual moment and slipped in through the back door. I gazed upon Mecca, otherwise known as a well-stocked fridge. When I opened the door, I’m sure I heard angels sing.

  “Let me make you a sandwich,” KiKi said as she came into the kitchen.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled around a fried-chicken drumstick clamped between my teeth. I sat down at the kitchen table. “Chantilly’s sending out the word to get us more clothes for the shop.”

  “Us?” KiKi let out a deep sigh and piled ham, turkey, tomato, and sliced avocado on whole wheat bread. “Some people at my age retire, you know. I should start thinking about retiring. I’d look great in one of those golf carts tooling around a retirement village down in Florida.”

  “You’d never leave Savannah, and if I can’t retire, you can’t retire.”

  “I’m sure there’s a thread of logic there somewhere.”

  Not necessarily, but I couldn’t have my auntie heading off to parts unknown. “I went to see Hollis, and he’s ornery as a caged cat.” I bit into the sandwich, and my eyes crossed in ecstasy. “There’s a special place in heaven for you.”

  “That’s because I resold your fountain. Raylene’s having a cocktail party tonight and needs to impress. She sent the Italian stallion, Raimondo Baldassare, to get it. Nearly had a heart attack when I answered the door and there he was in all his handsomeness. Lord have mercy, the man is a hunk. Anyway, I couldn’t find the pump part of the fountain and told him you’d drop it off for Raylene later. You know, Putter and I could do with a vacation in Italy. Can you imagine a whole country of Raimondos?” She fanned herself with a napkin.

  I nearly wept, but it wasn’t over the prospect of Italian men. “Money? I’ll have real money in bulk from selling the fountain? I can stock my own fridge.”

  KiKi kissed me on the head. “Now, where would the fun be in that, sweet pea?” She took a seat across from me at the round mahogany table. Rumor had it that both Lee and Grant had eaten at this particular table. I had my doubts whether that was true, but it made one heck of a story to pass on in the family. KiKi said, “Putter and I are going to Raylene’s bash tonight, and I was thinking that if you dropped off the pump late, you could sort of stick around and keep me company. There’s going to be a lot of uppity people there, and I’ll need a friendly face. I can take just so much uppity in one night. Everyone’s going to be talking about Cupcake. We don’t want to miss that.”

  “I don’t know. Raylene will have a hissy if I hang around. She’ll ask me to leave, and it will be downright embarrassing. She’s part of the Beaumonts’ social circle more than mine, so my former in–laws will be there, and I don’t need more Hollis in my life right now. And I do have a haunted-Savannah walking tour tonight for the Cincinnati Woman’s Sewing Circle visiting here.”

  “The ghost tours never start till later when all the Savannah ghosts are up and about, and the Beaumonts won’t show up with Hollis in the slammer, tarnishing the family name and all. Raylene wouldn’t dare ask you to leave with everyone at the party. She’ll be on her best behavior and welcome you as a dear friend. I bet she’ll have The Lady and Sons do the catering, and that means Paula Deen’s deviled eggs. Can you really pass up Paula’s deviled eggs?”

  Paula Deen was one of those true Southerners who put Savannah as well as herself on the map with the cooking secret of a stick of butter and a cup of cream in every pot. I downed the last bite of sandwich, thanked Auntie KiKi for feeding the hungry, and said I’d be at Raylene’s around six.

  Uncle Putter was meditating over another golf shot, or maybe it was the same one. Hard to tell, and I knew better than to interrupt by asking something so mundane as “How are you?”

  I rounded the corner and headed for my house but stopped dead at the property line, one foot on lush green, the other on lush weeds. Well, bless her heart! When Chantilly sends out the word, people listen. My porch had three ladies carrying hangers of clothes, and it all looked like really nice stuff. If I wanted to keep the Prissy Fox prissy and only take good-quality items, I had to figure out a nice way to tell someone their clothes weren’t good enough. Men in Savannah weren’t the only ones who packed heat these days, and
“Your dress is downright ugly” and “I don’t want it anywhere near my establishment” sounded a mite confrontational.

  By five I was tired to the bone with trying to come up with a system to keep consigners straight and mark what clothes belonged to whom. For now, I pinned account numbers along with the price to the clothes, then marked down the name, account numbers, and prices when the items sold. I needed one of those barb-gun things that attached price tags to the clothes instead of pins, and I really needed a crash course in Bookkeeping 101.

  I closed the Fox at five, grabbed a shower, and got a blue dress from the stash in the shop. Another good thing about running a consignment shop was an extensive wardrobe at your fingertips. Buy it, wear it, have it dry-cleaned, and resell. I couldn’t afford to do that often, but Raylene’s party meant I had to look good. Hadn’t I seen the cutest pair of taupe strappy sandals that had just come in? The heel was higher than what I usually wore, but considering I usually wore flip-flops, anything was higher.

  With Urston on my maybe list of murderers, this could be a very interesting night. Maybe I’d find out what exactly he and Cupcake were up to and why he was giving her money.

  Chapter Six

  “ABOUT time you got yourself here,” Raylene huffed when she answered the door of leaded-glass panes and gleaming brass hardware. “I have guests arriving any minute now, and I want that fountain up and running right quick or I’m stopping payment on my check.” She made a sour face, then stepped aside to let me enter. “Do you always carry that ugly yellow purse everywhere you go? A little evening purse wouldn’t hurt, you know. Something with class.”

  Raylene had married Junior Carter, of Carter Bank and Trust fame, and went from nobody to somebody in six months flat. That Junior Jr. was born two months premature, weighing nine pounds, six ounces, may have had something to do with the speedy wedding. Raylene, Junior, and Junior Jr., aka JJ, now lived in the historic Lester Reed House, a huge white antebellum Greek Revival with seven fireplaces, a side veranda, and the ghost of Lester Reed’s cat, or so we tour guides embellished.