by Duffy Brown
The light went right out of IdaMae’s eyes, and she rested her head in her hands. “Oh dear me. How could Hollis end up in jail of all places? To make things even worse, his town house got broken into. Who would do such a thing? That nice caretaker came all the way over here to tell me. He changed the locks and dropped off the new keys. Plumb nice of him, if you ask me.”
IdaMae took a key from her desk and handed it over, then pulled in a deep, ragged breath and forced a smile. “I’m sorry to be so down in the mouth. I just have these little worry spells from time to time is all. Hollis left his phone on his desk that dreadful day when they hauled him out in handcuffs.” A tear trailed down her cheek. “I’ll go get it for you,” she said in a wobbly voice. “I put it on his charger to keep it up for when he comes home to us nice and safe.”
“I’ll get it.” I started down the hall. “You finish up what you’re doing.” I didn’t want to upset IdaMae more than necessary. She’d been through enough. I opened the top drawer of Hollis’s desk to find business cards, envelopes, a carryout menu from Screamin’ Mimi’s pizza, a football schedule for the Georgia Bulldogs, the cell phone, and a .38 Smith and Wesson for those times when haggling over real estate went beyond haggling and someone had to restore peace and prosperity to the South.
The phone was one of those complicated phones with enough gizmos to get you to Mars and back and communicate with anyone you met along the way. I took it and the charger, thanked IdaMae, snatched two candies from the bowl, then called KiKi while walking back to Cherry House. I gave her Hollis’s number and reminded her that under no circumstances was she to confront Baxter. I disconnected, got home, threw in a load of laundry, and opened the Fox at ten sharp to three tourists who thought shopping at a Southern resale shop had to be the most fun in all of Georgia. God bless the tourists.
At noon I put a “Be Back at Three” sign on the door. This was no way to run a railroad. I needed regular shop hours, but I also needed to find Cupcake’s killer. KiKi helped out at the Fox when she could, but she had a business of her own and Uncle Putter to tend to, in addition to now doing Savannah’s version of Murder, She Wrote with me. Maybe the Abbott sisters would help out? I couldn’t afford to pay them, but if I gave them 50 percent off what they bought at the Fox, which was my half of the profit from the sale, that might be incentive enough. Plus, they could gossip with all the customers.
I caught a bus up to Broughton. Usually I walked, but if KiKi saw Baxter with a bimbo, there was a distinct possibility she’d go ballistic on Trellie’s behalf, and the SPD would have to call in the riot squad. KiKi had phoned earlier and told me she’d followed Baxter from his house to a garage, where he changed clothes and identities, picked up his truck, then headed to the Hilton Hotel on East Liberty. I got off the bus and found the service alley behind the Hilton, KiKi’s out–of–place Beemer parked next to a van reading “Dan’s Flora and Fauna.” I slipped into the passenger side.
“What’s up, Sherlock?”
“Nothing,” KiKi said, “except I got to pee so bad I might drown. I’m willing to bet there’s plenty going on with Baxter inside that hotel. Last time we saw him over at Marshall House; this time, the Hilton. That man’s clearly up to no good. I never thought Baxter could be the killer, but the longer I sit here and think about him, the more I realize I don’t really know the man at all. He just sort of showed up in Savannah and got to be a regular on the benefit circuit, going to dinners at the Oglethorpe Club, parties at the country club and the Telfair Museum, and the like. He said he did some modeling in Atlanta, and before you know it, he and Trellie were making goo-goo eyes at each other over martini glasses, then running off to Vegas and tying the knot.”
“You better go. The Petersons will have a conniption if you’re late.”
“Then the teens come in for cotillion dance lessons. The group I have this year can’t dance for beans. How they ever learned to walk is a mystery to me. I’m leaving you the car, and I’ll catch a cab out front. Let me know what happens.”
“Get the cabbie to do a pee stop at Ray’s BBQ, and pick up sweet-potato fries while you’re there. Ray does great sweet-potato fries.”
I watched KiKi head off, then got out and walked around the car, settling down in the comfy leather driver’s seat to wait for Baxter. Five minutes later, he came out the service entrance, pulled his baseball cap low over his face, and jogged to his truck. He had on another pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and I watched him toss his case in the back of the pickup, then hop in the driver’s side. I sank lower still as he motored out of the alley and hung a left. I brought the Beemer to life and followed at a distance. The BMW may be a really nice car, but it got noticed. What I needed was a silver SUV. Half the cars on the road these days were silver SUVs.
Baxter swung onto Bay Street, then circled around back of the Hampton Inn. This guy had one heck of a constitution and was headed for a lifetime achievement award of Wilt Chamberlain proportions. Maybe that was the problem. Women panted after Baxter; I’d seen them do it. Trellie was older, and perhaps she simply couldn’t keep up. The way this guy was going, no woman could keep up!
The service alley was tight with trucks and Dumpsters, forcing me to park at the entrance. I wasn’t sure what KiKi and I were going to do with the information about Baxter. Tell Trellie? Confront Baxter with ‘The jig is up, bubba; reform your philandering ways’? Have our obituaries posted in the morning news?
Someone knocked on the passenger-side window, and I jumped so high I cracked my head on the visor. Thinking about one’s obituary can do that to a person. Recognizing the no–makeup look and the stringy mouse-brown hair that almost made my two-tone stripes look good, I powered down the window to Reverend Franklin’s wife, Birdie. She was Hollis’s cousin, so our paths had crossed a few times. “Uh, hi, Birdie.”
She climbed in. “I know what you’re doing here, and I tell you it’s downright disgraceful. Do you have any idea how many lives you’re going to ruin? Don’t you have a conscience?”
“I’m not trying to ruin lives, I’m trying to find Cupca—Janelle’s killer so an innocent man doesn’t go to prison.” And I don’t lose my house.
Birdie nodded to the Hampton. “And you think that no–good cheater is the murderer?”
“Well, he’s running all over town, slipping in and out of back doors, lying to his wife, sleeping with who-knows-how-many women, and getting blackmailed. I’m sure he wasn’t happy about that.”
“Oh dear Lord!” Birdie slapped her hand to her forehead and looked faint. “He’s playing around with more than one?”
“The way I see it, Baxter is Hugh Hefner without the wrinkles and robe.”
Birdie’s face morphed from tortured to weird. “For pity’s sake, who’s Baxter?”
“The man I’m watching. Why did you think I was here?”
“To keep an eye on my Virgil, of course. I know he’s fooling around on me with that snooty little deacon. I thought you were here to take pictures of the two of them together and get proof that Virgil had a motive for killing that Janelle woman and get Hollis off the hook. Virgil might be a gigolo in preachers’ clothing, but he’s not a killer. He’s not that kind of man. He’s a good man.” Birdie bit back a sob. “He truly is.”
“And why are you here?”
“I hired a private investigator, and he said Virgil and that bimbo meet here. I wanted to see for myself if it was true.” She sniffed, her eyes watering. “Virgil never brings me to nice places like this.”
The Hampton was an okay hotel but not a “nice places like this” hotel. It was a “Mom, Dad, and the kids on their way to Grandma’s” kind of place.
“When Virgil and I go out,” Birdie said to me, her voice bitter, “it’s to those rallies and fund-raisers with rubber chicken, Stove Top stuffing, and no wine. I could do with a glass of wine served to me once in a while, something white. I’d love a drink with a little umbrella.”
“You need to try the drinks with olives. I don’t thi
nk your husband is a murderer, but he’s not a good man either, least not to you.”
Me giving marital advice was like Joan Rivers giving advice on facelifts, but if I stood by and let Birdie make the same mistakes I had, that wasn’t right either.
“Look, if you know Virgil is messing around, and I know he’s messing around, it’s only a matter of time till all of Savannah knows. The way this works is that the guy gets the cupcake, and the woman gets the embarrassment and the heartache.”
“But we were in love once. We have children. I don’t know what to do.” She bit back another sob.
Shoot the bastard was on the tip of my tongue, but I went with, “Tell Virgil he has to make a choice. Don’t be stuck in the middle letting him make all the decisions for your life and his. I did that and nearly lost my mind. It’s no way to live.” I spotted Baxter’s truck whizzing by and said to Birdie, “I have to follow that truck. That’s Baxter, and he’s messing around on his wife and clearly married her for her money. She could be in real danger.” I started the Beemer and took off.
“Oh goodness.” Birdie buckled up and gripped the dashboard. Hunched over in concentration, she peered through the windshield. “Don’t be getting too close. I’ve seen those TV shows. You’ve got to hang back, or he’ll spot us.”
We took Habersham to Congress, and the truck swung in the alleyway behind The Planters Inn, which faced Reynolds Square. “Mercy me, this Baxter person sure has expensive taste. Is he really going after his wife’s money?”
“If he killed Janelle to get her to stop blackmailing him, he could very well plan to knock off his wife for her money.” Baxter got out of his truck, and I drove on past so as not to look too suspicious.
“Stop!” Birdie yelped.
“What? Where?” I slammed on the brakes, leaving the smell of burning rubber and two years’ worth of tread streaked down the alley. Was there a cat? A dog? A kid? An adrenaline rush of perspiration trickled down my front. I didn’t see anything, but Birdie flung open the car door and ran toward Baxter, her brown pencil skirt sneaking up her thighs, her jacket billowing out Batman style.
“I’ve had it with your kind!” she yelled at Baxter.
Good God in heaven, the woman had snapped! I ran after Birdie as she swung her purse over her head. “You two-timing good-for-nothing bastard, how dare you!”
Baxter held up his hands in defense, trying to ward off the blows. His hat few off, his glasses hit the ground, blood gushed from his nose, and he staggered backward.
“Make her stop!” Baxter pleaded. I grabbed Birdie, using all my strength to hold her. Note to self: don’t get the preacher’s wife riled up!
“He’s one of them! They’re everywhere; they’re everywhere!” Birdie panted, struggling to get at Baxter again.
“What are you talking about?” Baxter used his sleeve to try and stop his bleeding nose.
“Men like you are what I’m talking about!” Birdie pointed a long, accusatory finger, as only a preacher’s wife can. “You play around on your wife and think you can get away with it, and you don’t care how much you hurt her or anyone else. Shame on you! Shame, shame, shame on you, Baxter!”
If Baxter didn’t feel like he was headed straight for the fires of hell after all that, he was untouchable.
“You’re nuts, a complete whack job.” Baxter’s eyes were already turning black and blue.
“We know you’re cheating on Trellie,” I said while keeping a firm grip on Birdie. “I’ve been following you around town, and we know about all the hotels, the sneaking, and going in through back doors.”
“You’re following me? Why don’t you mind your own business, and for the love of God, I’m not cheating on Trellie. I wouldn’t do that. I go to hotels because I’m an electrician, a master electrician. I take care of the high-voltage lines.” He kicked his case, which he’d dropped to the ground. “Look in there if you don’t believe me. It’s all tools. No condoms in sight. You two should be locked up. You’re both bat-crap nuts!”
Chapter Twelve
BAXTER was an electrician? “If you’re innocent as the driven snow, why were you sneaking around?” I asked him straight-out. “Why the truck? Why the disguise? Why this?” I marched to the Beemer and pulled the horn-rimmed glasses from my purse. I waved them in Baxter’s face. “Look familiar?”
Baxter’s face went ashen. With his wild hair and black-and-blue eyes, if he’d had on a nightshirt and chains, he’d pass for Marley right out of Scrooge. This was a far cry from his usual yumminess.
“Where’d you get those?” he asked me, staring at the glasses.
“Where do you think I got them?”
Birdie looked from me to Baxter and back to me again, tennis-match style. “Somebody want to tell me what in the world is going on around here?”
Baxter snagged the glasses right out of my hand. “You were the one in the town house last night,” he accused me.
“You were there trying to cover your tracks from being there before,” I accused right back.
“I was looking for the information Janelle has on the people she was blackmailing,” Baxter said to me in explanation. “I don’t think anyone has found it yet, or they’d take up where Janelle left off, and I’d be back to forking over more money, just to a different person.”
Birdie put her hand to her forehead. “Saints preserve us, never even considered the possibility of that happening. I figured that since Janelle was dead, the threat of being blackmailed was over and done with. It’s not, is it? Virgil’s a stupid fool.” She scrunched up her face and studied Baxter. “But I don’t understand about you. If you’re not carrying on with another woman like you say, what did this Janelle person have that could hurt you?”
“Like I’m going to tell you so you can blackmail me. I should just start handing out leaflets and get it over with.”
Birdie folded her arms. “Janelle Claiborne was threatening to blackmail my husband, the one and only Reverend Virgil Franklin, poster boy for family values, who is skipping around town as we speak, doing the deacon. Try and top that one.”
Baxter let out soft whistle. “I think that wins the Kewpie doll.”
“Blackmailers deserve to burn in hell for all eternity,” Birdie said in an authoritative voice as someone who knew all about hell burning and what constituted admission. “I suppose you and my husband are in the same boat.”
“Not really.” Baxter said, running his hand through his hair. “I love my wife; I truly do. At first I did marry Trellie for her money. Janelle knew that and threatened to tell Trellie if I didn’t pay up.”
Birdie said, “It’s your word against Janelle’s. Your wife would believe you, don’t you think?”
“When I was in Atlanta, I’d married a woman there and divorced her and took her savings—well, half of it. I lost it in a real-estate deal gone bad, then came to Savannah to find another wealthy woman and do the same thing all over again. I fell in love with Trellie, really fell in love. I’ve been working to pay the woman in Atlanta back and pay Janelle to keep her mouth shut. I’m a pretty good electrician, and the people I work for don’t travel in the country-club circles. They don’t know me as Trellie’s husband. I do the disguise just to make sure. Janelle knew my ex in Atlanta. Janelle knew a lot of people, like Dinah Corwin from WAGA, who’s doing the interviews here in town. Janelle broke up her marriage and had to get a restraining order against Corwin. She went a little crazy.”
Baxter gave me a look like Birdie and I belonged in the same category. He added, “I think one of the reasons Janelle came to Savannah in the first place was to bleed me dry when she found out I married Trellie.”
“So you got tired of paying Janelle and killed her?” I blurted, then realized that may not be the wisest thing to say to a killer.
“Look,” Baxter said to me, the part of his multicolored eyes that hadn’t yet swollen shut looking sincere. “I’m trying to straighten out my life, not screw it up even more. I had an emergency electrical
job over at the Bay Street Inn the night Janelle was killed. Trellie had a stomach virus, so we didn’t make the party at the Telfair Museum. She went to bed early, and I took the job. Someone had backed into a pole and wiped out the electrical system to the kitchen. I worked six hours straight to get the inn up and running for the next morning. The manager paid me double. He’ll remember the guy with the glasses.”
“The glasses are a nice touch,” I told him.
“The glasses are a necessity. I do some pretty tricky work, and connecting the wrong lines could be fireworks, if you get my drift.”
“Guess it also helps with picking locks.”
“I did what I thought I had to do. Did you find Janelle’s stash of information? Are you going to tell Trellie all this or what?”
“I don’t know where Janelle’s stuff is on the people she’s blackmailing, but you have to tell Trellie about Atlanta,” I said to Baxter, Birdie standing at my side, nodding in agreement. “She’ll find out. I did.”
“Yeah, but you’re a pain–in–the-butt snoop who’s aiming to get into a lot of trouble if you keep digging around to find out who killed Janelle.” Baxter ran his hand through his hair, making it look even scarier. “But you are right about Trellie finding out. Fact is, she’ll probably get a registered letter straight from Janelle Claiborne.”
“Uh, honey, Janelle’s dead as can be. No worries there,” Birdie said.
“Janelle’s dead all right but not forgotten. Blackmailers are smart.” Baxter had that defeated look about him, like someone fighting a losing battle. I’d had that feeling a few times myself lately. “Blackmailers have contingency plans to keep themselves alive and well. They leave incriminating evidence with a third party. In the event of their untimely death, this third party sends out that information to the police, government, press, spouses, or wherever it will do the most damage. This makes the people being blackmailed have second thoughts about killing their blackmailers.”
He turned his attention to Birdie. “Have you gotten anything about Franklin’s infidelity?”
