Iced Chiffon

by Duffy Brown

  Forty minutes later, I jumped in the shower, shampooed, dried, then checked the mirror. I was blonde again, sort of, with the skunk stripe now the color of my old bathroom and the rest of my hair a match for Urston’s doorknocker. This two-tone look never happened on those hair-dye TV commercials. There the girl swished around her newly colored locks, and some handsome dude took her to dinner in a Jaguar.

  I clipped my hair up on top of my head and hoped the bicolored effect wasn’t so obvious. I dressed in funeral-black capri pants and a black blouse with taupe trim. I slipped on my best flip-flops, which I saved for special occasions, to show off my new toes. The shoes were so cute, with little flowers and rhinestones. Maybe no one would notice the hair.

  I couldn’t hitch a ride to the wake with KiKi and Putter, because they were at the Paxtons’ party—I would simply meet them there. I decided to forgo the bus, save two bucks, and walk. I started up Drayton alongside Forsyth Park, which was brimming with flowers, blooming tress, joggers, walkers, and the Confederate Monument, with soldier Archibald McLeish atop, facing north to the enemy. In Savannah, some things are never forgotten.

  Streetlights flickered on as I rounded the corner onto Broughton. Up ahead was the Marshall House, with distinctive black wrought-iron railing across the second floor. The white-gloved doorman tipped his hat and said, “Good evening.” I headed for the bar area, which was even more crowded than usual.

  The Marshall House was a bed-and-breakfast that had been everything from a boardinghouse back in the early eighteen hundreds, to a hospital for Union soldiers when Sherman had his change–of–address cards read Savannah. When I was in high school, the place was rehabbed. To the delight of kids and ghost tours, amputated body parts were found buried in the basement. Over the years, I’ve heard ghostly stores of pictures falling off walls, electrical systems failing, alarms going off in the middle of the night, guests getting locked in their own rooms, and apple pie flying across the kitchen. Wish I’d been around to see that one. All in all, the elegant Marshall House was the perfect place for a wake.

  “I’m so glad you could make it,” Dinah Corwin gushed, as she breezed over to me in a red dress and ruby shoes. She snagged a glass of champagne from a tray and slipped it into my hand. “Drink up, girlfriend. The wicked witch is dead.”

  Dinah danced between the tables of those she recognized and the regular customers, though some could have been there to celebrate as well. Hard to tell. Not everyone wanted his or her name connected with a dead cupcake. Dinah chatted with IdaMae, AnnieFritz and Elsie, and Auntie KiKi and Putter, with his golf club. I said hi to Jan, from the Cutting Crew, and suspected Cupcake had her manis and pedis done there. Sarah, from Shoes by Sarah, sat next to Jan, both with martinis in their hands and smiles on their faces. I headed for KiKi’s table in the back and caught a glimpse of Sissy Collins. The reverend wasn’t there, but Sissy wore a dopey smile and was obviously soused from a little too much celebrating. When she spotted me, the smile morphed into a glare. She downed the rest of her martini and hustled out the side door. I guess I wasn’t loved by one and all either.

  “Where in the world did you go off to this afternoon?” KiKi asked in a rush as I sat down in Putter’s chair while he refreshed his martini and talked wedges and irons with Raimondo and Baxter Armstrong at the bar. KiKi picked up a strand of my hair. “Honey, you’ve been striped.”

  “Things happen.”

  “To some of us more than others.” She let out a resigned sigh, then leaned closer and whispered, “Why didn’t you come back into the garden with me and Urston? Belinda said you weren’t feeling well and had to leave right quick, but I didn’t buy that little fib for one second. She lies worse than you, with her lips twitching and eyes blinking as a dead giveaway she’s up to something.”

  KiKi glanced from side to side to make sure no one was listening before continuing. “So, did you find the scuffed loafers?”

  I did a thumbs–up. “Now we know Urston and Raylene were the ones arguing at the party, and they’re connected to Cupcake. There’s more. Get this, I saw Urston’s red notebook. The notebook. It was right there in his bedroom on a desk, and not locked up like we all think.”

  “Honey, if you didn’t take a look inside that book to find out who’s winning Best of Show so far, I’m having a stroke in this very chair.”

  KiKi grabbed my hand tightly and leaned closer, her voluptuous cleavage nearly spilling out onto the table. I prayed she had the girls pulled in tight or there’d be more celebrating going on than the end of Cupcake, and we’d have a new Best of Show right here in the Marshall House.

  KiKi added, “I heard at the country club that Raylene’s made reservations at the Pink House. That means she thinks she’s going to win again and showing off with a fine, expensive dinner—of all the nerve.” KiKi was so close our noses nearly touched. “So, is she going to win?”

  “I don’t know.”

  KiKi jolted back in her chair. “Whatever do you mean you don’t know?”

  I pulled KiKi back to hush-hush position. “There was nothing in the notebook about the gardens. The book was blank! If Raylene is making noises like she’s a shoo–in, and Urston isn’t making notes on what garden is best, then something fishy’s going on in Savannah.”

  “I do declare. It’s like maybe Urston already knows the outcome and so does Raylene? Why on earth would Urston get himself involved in such a thing?”

  I said to KiKi, “Remember when you told me that Urston had a love affair with the ponies? I found a racing form tucked in the notebook. My guess is Urston’s run up gambling debts and needs money, and Raylene’s paying him off so her garden wins. We all know Urston is the one who persuades the rest of the judges to do things his way, and Raylene has no problem flashing her checkbook around when she wants something bad enough.”

  “Cupcake was part of the Homes and Gardens meetings. She must have been digging up dirt on people. She found stuff on Franklin and Sissy, and she got the goods on Urston and Raylene.” KiKi giggled. “This is all mighty fine dirt, too, and we’re the only ones who know.”

  I sucked air through clenched teeth. “Not exactly. Belinda found me in her bedroom, and I got sort of nervous and might have let it slip that I saw Raylene and Urston talking at the garden party. Now she knows that I know about the notebook and I might have figured out what Raylene and Urston are up to. I decided to leave the premises when Belinda picked up a candlestick and looked as if she knew how to use it for more than just holding candles.”

  “Mercy! Cher says, ‘If you really want something, you can figure out how to make it happen,’ but this is going too far.” KiKi plucked the toothpick out of her martini and slurped the green olive right off the end. “What ever happened to you flying under the radar? I think you just crashed and burned.”

  “I’ve asked a few questions, but being that Hollis is my ex and the prime suspect, I don’t believe anyone entertains the thought that I’m after the killer. Most assume I’m happy as can be Hollis is in a mess and that he’s got it coming. I bet Belinda just thinks I stumbled onto some information about the Homes and Gardens Tour is all.”

  “Cupcake stumbled onto that very same information and look where that got her. Belinda may not be the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but even she knows people don’t go snooping in closets and notebooks without being up to something. Thank the Lord above you’re taking all this to Boone and letting him handle things from here on out. Now you can concentrate on the Prissy Fox and stay out of trouble. It’s time for you to back off.”

  “Back off what?” IdaMae asked as she sat down across from KiKi.

  I held up KiKi’s glass. “Martinis.”

  IdaMae’s eyes laughed. “Well, she can’t do that tonight. This is a mighty good party now, isn’t it? I suppose I shouldn’t be saying a thing like that when poor Janelle is in a big, old black hearse this very minute, careening across Highway 16 on her way to Atlanta.”

  KiKi quirked a brow in su
rprise, and IdaMae added, “Hollis asked me to take care of the arrangements. Janelle’s mamma is simply too distraught to handle funeral affairs though, best I can tell, there’s not going to be much of a funeral. She doesn’t want the press sniffing around and asking a lot of nosy questions about the murder, and, of course, Hollis can’t attend. Just plumb awful the way he was hauled off to jail like that. Who would have thought?”

  “How did your house showing go?” I asked. It wasn’t a very subtle change of subject on my part, but IdaMae brightened right up.

  “Well, my goodness, do you believe I went and sold my very first piece of real estate? When Hollis called me about the funeral arrangements, I told him about the house. He was all atwitter. Said it was nice to have someone bringing in money, and I was pretty much running the place now. Everything’s going to be better than ever when he gets home. Poor Hollis. I feel so bad for him.”

  Home! I pictured Hollis’s town house full of dead vegetation and stinking like a swamp, all because of me. “I forgot to water his plants.”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing,” IdaMae said to me, patting my hand. “I went and got the complex manager to let me inside Hollis’s place. I knew you were busy with your shop, so I took care of it. That’s what I came over here to tell you.”

  I promised IdaMae I’d take over watering duty. I thanked Dinah for a lovely party and told KiKi I’d catch up with her tomorrow. Not everyone was at the bar for the wake, of course, with Marshall House being a popular Savannah watering hole. I said good-bye to Uncle Putter, with his trusty putter; Raimondo, taking a break from work and with withered petals by his left foot; and Baxter Armstrong, taking a break from being married and with his Porsche convertible in the parking lot. Golf was the great equalizer around here and made for eternal male conversation. Saint Peter probably played golf.

  After last night’s activities of building display racks and booting Walker Boone out of my house at three in the morning, I needed sleep. I grabbed Old Yeller and headed down Broughton. Traffic was heavy, with everyone out enjoying the weather. I turned onto Abercorn and ran into a ghost tour at Colonial Park Cemetery. The place dated back to before the war, and, of course, there was only one war talked about around here. I crossed to East Charlton, which had oaks so dense they formed a canopy overhead. Side gardens with trickling fountains, flickering gas lamps, and raised porches to avoid dust from once-upon–a–time mud streets made Savannah picture-perfect Old South.

  The shadows deepened to near black, but I’d walked this way often enough to know where tree roots and lose sand made for uneven cobblestones. An open-air orange tour bus rumbled by, spouting the glories of Oglethorpe and his loyal followers, and I was suddenly yanked from behind by my purse strap and pushed into a narrow alley between two of those perfect Southern houses. I hit my head against one of the stone foundations and stumbled to the ground, getting a mouthful of dirt. My heart stopped, and I couldn’t breathe. Glass and gravel dug into my knees and elbows, and all I could see were rocks and weeds. Scream, my brain demanded, but nothing came out.

  My purse was yanked hard, no doubt to get at my money, but I held it tight to my chest. I had about three bucks in cash, but I couldn’t afford to replace my bag, even if it was a Target special. Another big tug came on the strap, but I had a death grip. I hoped that didn’t turn out to be a literal description.

  “Mind your own business.” The voice was rough and throaty, and I had no idea who it was. I suppose that was the whole point. Footsteps hurried off, and I lifted my head as the rotten, no–good pig in a big black coat disappeared around the back of the house. I was scared, shaking, fighting to catch my breath, and thanking my lucky stars my attacker left me alone. I cut my eyes to the front of the alley where I’d nearly been purse-napped and spied another big thug coming right at me. That’s why pig attacker left. There was someone else wanting a piece of the action.

  Enough action! This time my vocal cords and adrenaline rush worked perfectly. I jumped up, yelling stuff that sounded remarkably like the expletives I heard over on Seventeenth Street. I charged for all I was worth down the narrow alley, swinging Old Yeller with both hands.

  “Ouch! Ouch! What the heck!”

  I knew that voice. Anger pooled in my gut, but I didn’t think my life was in danger. I tried another swing, but my arms got pinned to my sides, rendering my purse flailing ineffective. I was flattened against the side of a house by a hard male body. Granted, it had been a while since I’d felt one of those, but I had a pretty good recollection. Slowly, I looked up and came eye–to–chin with Walker Boone.

  Chapter Nine

  “YOU scared the liver out of me!” I wanted to continue beating Boone with my purse for taking ten years off my life in sheer terror, but he had me so I couldn’t move, and his stubble was sandpapering my nose. “Do you mind backing off? Do you ever shave?”

  “Yes, I shave, and I do mind. You’re a raving wildcat. I think you chipped my tooth.”

  “Well, someone just tried to mug me in an alley, then you came along, and I was overwrought.” I tried to wiggle free but it was useless. “You’re squashing me here.”

  “I’m considering doing a lot more. Why were you over on Seventeenth Street? Do you have a latent death wish? And who gave you permission to be throwing my name around?”

  “For your information I wasn’t throwing, more like a little toss.” I ducked under Boone’s arm and slid free. “And why do you care what I say, anyway?” I parked my hands on my hips in defiance. I’d had enough bullying and being scared for one day.

  Boone took my hands and held them, palms up, his eyes blazing mad. “You’re bleeding, and you’re shaking. What happened in that alley?” He looked down. “Where are your shoes?”

  “Someone tried to snatch my purse, and I sort of lost my shoes.” I nodded back down the alley.

  Boone handed me a handkerchief, then picked my purse off the ground as if it were a dead rat. “You got mugged for this? Just give them the thing next time and consider it a blessing in disguise.”

  I tried to grab back my bag, but I didn’t have the strength. Instead I held out my hand. “Give me my bag so I can go home, okay?”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “I’ll walk.”

  “Not without shoes.” Boone went into the alley, and I watched as he picked up one flip-flop, then the other, then came back, dangling them off the tips of his fingers. “These aren’t shoes. These are things you wear in the shower at camp so you don’t get jungle rot and your toes fall off.”

  “You went to camp?”

  “Boot camp for badasses.” He gave a slight smile as I snatched my flip-flops, with the little flowers now smashed. “Your mother sent me there instead of the slammer. I’m taking you home before something else happens and I get the blame.”

  Boone took off down the street with Old Yeller, and I hopped after him on one foot, then the other, while slipping on my mangled shoes. “Hey, that purse is mine, and what do you mean, my mother?”

  “The one who gave you birth, kissed your boo-boos, and wears a black robe sans pointed hat, though there are those of us who think she keeps it in the closet next to her broom.” Boone stopped by a vintage red Chevy convertible, top down, with a pristine white interior.

  “I think my granddaddy Milton had a car like this,” I said, giving it an appreciative once-over. “I also think there are a lot of things Mamma doesn’t tell me.”

  “I bet that cuts both ways.” I went to open the door, but Boone stopped me. “Don’t get in just yet. You’re really a mess, and you smell like the stairwell in a parking garage.” He unlocked the trunk and pulled out a blanket, then spread it over the passenger seat. He opened the passenger door. “Try not to touch anything.”

  “I feel so welcome.”

  Boone handed me my purse, then took the driver’s side and cranked over the Chevy. It was good to be safe and sitting in a nice car. The company left something to be desired, but you can’t have every
thing. “How did you find me?” I asked as Boone headed across East Charlton. “I have a hard time believing this was a chance encounter. Are you stalking me?”

  “Don’t have to. You’re like the cops, always around when you don’t want them. Big Joey took great pleasure in telling me you paid him a visit. I thought you and I needed to chat. I heard about Dinah Corwin’s wake over at the Marshall House and figured you’d go. Your auntie KiKi said you were walking home. I saw you, parked the car, and then you were gone. I took a look around, and you were facedown in the alley with someone standing over you.” Boone plucked a Kit Kat wrapper from my hair. “How do you keep getting into these messes?”

  “It’s a knack.”

  “Big Joey and the boys are not to be messed with.”

  I turned sideways in my seat to face him. I wanted to see his reaction to my next question. Boone always knew more than he let on. “Then you tell me why Big Joey’s all cheery about Janelle’s demise. I can’t imagine those two even knowing each other, and them running in the same social circles doesn’t compute. My guess is she did something to tick him off, and Big Joey does not seem the sort to take ticking lightly.”

  “Why don’t you just play with your little store and mind your own business.”

  “It’s not gonna work, Boone. I know you. We’ve done battle for two years, and I know when you’re pushing my buttons so I get all huffy and bent out of shape. Then I storm off and sulk and let you get your way.” I folded my arms. “My sulking days are over, and I’m not going anywhere. Big Joey told me that Janelle went after the wrong people and that’s why she’s dead. That means he knows she was into blackmailing, so my guess is Cupcake was blackmailing somebody Big Joey cares about. How am I doing so far?”

  Boone stopped for a light, and I leveled him a hard look. “Who was Janelle blackmailing that Big Joey would take serious issue with? You?”

  Boone barked out a laugh, his dark eyes lit with humor. I’d never seen this side of Boone. As far as I knew, the only thing he ever barked was orders. It was a little unnerving to see him genuinely…happy? “Savannah gossips know all about me,” Boone said. “Or at least they think they do, and what they don’t know they make up. Blackmailing me is a waste of time.” Boone sobered. “So, you think you know everyone Janelle was milking?”