by Duffy Brown
“How do you think Sissy got in the ‘For Sale’ house without being seen?” KiKi asked me once we had appletinis with more apple than tini, since we would have to drive home. We sat at one of the little outside tables on the sidewalk, surrounded by other tables jammed close together.
“Same way I got in.” I hunched over the drinks. “I snuck across the backyard. The privacy fence helps with the sneaking part. The night of the murder, Tommy Lee was at the movies and not out doing street patrol. Later, when Sissy came back with the Lexus, she’d want someone to see it because that would implicate Hollis. My guess is she drove real slow to give everyone a good look.”
“But Sissy is so wrapped up in Franklin that nothing else registers with that girl, and the murder took some figuring out. If she is the killer, maybe she left something behind at the house,” KiKi said over the rim of her glass. “I think we should go back to the house together and take another look around.”
My skin crawled at the thought of revisiting the place where Cupcake died. KiKi asked, “So how did you get in the house, Houdini?”
Judge Gloria Summerside and Arthur-Murray KiKi Vanderpool were day-and-night different in some ways, but dead–on in others. George Clooney was their dream man, peanut-butter-chip ice cream from Leopold’s their favorite food, and good-old Savannah stubbornness their life’s blood. Reluctantly, I dug in the front pocket of my purse and pulled out the key to the “For Sale” house, still embedded in the fragments I’d grabbed from the floor to leave the crime scene as I found it.
“You need to clean that purse,” KiKi lamented. “You’re going to catch some god-awful disease they don’t have a cure for and all your skin’s gonna fall off,” KiKi said pushing grass and leaves aside and reaching for the key.
“Wait a minute.” I held my hand over the little pile of rubble in front of me. I plucked out a blade. It wasn’t grass. It was thicker, longer, distinctive, pointy, withered. It was pink. It was a frond. Yesterday I didn’t know a frond from a cucumber. “This is a Tillandsia something–or–other. Someone else was in the ‘For Sale’ house the night of the murder.”
“Right. Raylene was there, then Sissy.”
“Besides Sissy.” I held up the blade, pink, wilted, and interesting. “What do you know about Raimondo Baldassare?”
“How did Raimondo suddenly get into the picture?” KiKi asked me.
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to figure out.”
Chapter Seventeen
KIKI took the last sip of her appletini and wagged her brows, a sassy smile on her lips. “Well, Raimondo is always a fine topic of conversation, no matter what the reason. He’s Italian, gorgeous, does up an incredible garden, and everyone knows he has the best butt in Savannah. Are you thinking about making a play for Raimondo?” KiKi gasped. “Is that what this is all about?”
Before I could answer, she grabbed my hand, her eyes dancing and not just from the tini. Auntie KiKi, Love Doctor. “Oh, honey, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day. You’re taking the plunge, getting back into the dating pool, and Raimondo is more delicious than strawberry shortcake at Sunday dinner. I’m plumb tickled for you. This is wonderful news. I never saw it coming.”
This time I grabbed KiKi’s hands and looked her dead in the eyes. “It’s not coming. I don’t want to date Raimondo; I want to know what his plants are doing in Hollis’s town house. Hollis has the same palms at his place that are at the country club, and we know the club spares no expense—the members wouldn’t stand for it. How did Hollis get these expensive plants? More to the point, how did Cupcake?”
“And why do we care?”
“It’s another big question that involves Cupcake.” I twirled the frond around on the table. “Raimondo was at Cupcake’s wake at the Marshall House. At the time, I thought it was a coincidence; the bar at the Marshall House is a popular watering hole for half the city, and he happened to be there. But now we have his plants at the town house. My guess is Cupcake put the squeeze on Raimondo, and not in a romantic way, and he gave her the palms. But why? What did Cupcake have on Raimondo?”
KiKi picked up the frond. “How do you know this is from Raimondo? How do you know someone else didn’t drag it in that house?”
“When Raimondo prunes a bush, he has this habit of shoving the cuttings in his pocket so he doesn’t leave a mess. Then he reaches in his pocket for his wallet for something else and the clippings come out, too. I saw it happen when I was at Raylene’s garden party, and there were flower petals under his stool at the Marshall House. My guess is Raimondo was maintaining the palms out at the club, then came to see Cupcake the night she got whacked.”
“Seems a little far-fetched. He could have been there anytime.”
“That house wasn’t shown all that often, and this palm isn’t all dried up from weeks of lying around. It’s fresh. From what the girls at the Cutting Crew and over at Shoes by Sarah say, Cupcake was all about getting something for nothing. She coerced them into touching up her nails for free or new shoes or whatever else she can get away with. My guess is Cupcake had something on Raimondo and forced him into giving her the palms as part of the blackmail deal. He got tired of it all, paid her a visit, and killed her. He’s a strong man; he could have easily moved the body.”
KiKi downed the rest of her drink and mine, then handed me the keys to the Beemer. “Well, hang it all. We thought Baxter was the killer and that fell through, and the same with Raylene and Urston. My money’s still on Sissy. What could Cupcake possibly have on Raimondo? He’s not a sleazy hedge-fund manager; Raimondo plants pretty stuff in the ground.”
“Tomorrow you should talk to Raimondo. Tell him you want to discuss plans for your backyard. I’ll get Elsie and AnnieFritz to cover for me at the Fox, and I’ll go to his house and find out what the Italian stallion is hiding.”
“Honey, we all want to see what the stallion is hiding,” KiKi quipped with a devilish smile. Then her brows drew down hard, and she folded her hands on top of the table. “If you get Raimondo all riled up and he cancels doing my yard next month, I’m going to be madder than a wet hen.”
“Think of it this way. If I find nothing, Raimondo is off the hook, and you get a little one–on–one time.”
THE NEXT MORNING I WAS UP EARLY, MOSTLY because Bruce Willis was up early. I could count on him to stay close to the house, unless a cat, squirrel, rabbit, or other furry creature invaded his territory in the morning, when he had energy to give chase. Territorial rights faded as the day wore on, and by noon BW was content to live and let live, and I could keep the door to the Fox open, giving the place a more welcoming appearance.
I sat on the steps and stifled a yawn as a scowling Auntie KiKi pranced across the front yard. She had on a yellow housecoat and matching slippers. Auntie KiKi, the princess of matching loungewear. “I’ll have you know that when we got home last night I left a message on Raimondo’s cell,” KiKi said to me, without so much as a good morning or handing me a cup of coffee. “I asked to see him today and if he could pay a visit. Well, he just returned the call. He and his crew have two big jobs in town and he’s busy as a one-armed paperhanger in a windstorm. He can’t make it. That man didn’t kill Cupcake; I can feel it in my bones. He’s innocent of any wrongdoing, and this is just a wild-goose chase.”
“Then come with me. We’ll dig around out at his place and see what turns up.” I winked. “Dig around? A landscaper? Get it?”
KiKi made a sour face. “I don’t want to find Raimondo guilty of anything but taking off his shirt and making my backyard lovely as can be.”
“You can find another landscaper.”
“They’re all fat and show their butt cracks when they bend over. It’s downright obscene. Besides, none of them are as good as Raimondo. Take a look around this city; all the best yards are done by him.”
“His nursery’s out on Skidaway. Maybe the pink piece of palm is just coincidence.”
KiKi waved her arms in the air and marched off, saying, �
��You’re going to find something that’s going to implicate Raimondo, and here I am helping you do it. I should have my head examined for letting you talk me into these things.”
At nine sharp the Abbott sisters arrived with peach jam, buttermilk biscuits, and cinnamon coffee. In no time, they were feeding BW bits of biscuit and deep in conversation with two early-bird customers about the likelihood of the mayor’s secretary sleeping with the clerk of courts, and that our lovely UPS driver, Chantilly, broke up with her fiancée and was so distraught over the whole ordeal she was delivering packages to all the wrong houses.
“What’s with the outfit?” KiKi asked me as we drove toward Truman Parkway.
I’d scooped my hair back into a ponytail and had on my hiking boots, brown shorts, and a tan T–shirt. “It’s my blend-into-the-environment uniform. You know, like I work at the nursery.”
“Have you looked at your front yard lately, honey? You’re not fooling anybody.” She glanced at my boots. “If I entertained any thoughts that you might be hot for Raimondo, they are now officially gone. You’d never get a man in that outfit.”
“I don’t want a man.”
“Uh–huh.”
The sky was overcast, a spring shower in the mix. “What are you looking for out at the nursery anyway?” KiKi asked when she got to the entrance ramp. “Raimondo works hard all day, then goes home and does more work. He’s quiet, a man of few words in that sexy Italian voice that sends chills right through every female here in Savannah.” She cut her eyes my way. “Well, most females in Savannah. My vote’s still with Sissy being our main suspect.”
“That’s because she’s not a lovely hunk of man in your backyard.”
“There is that.”
It was a twenty-minute ride out to Blooms by Baldassare. KiKi turned onto a gravel road, slowing the car so as not to kick up stones and ding the finish on the Beemer. The nursery was a flat stretch of land running alongside the river, with perfect rows of bushes and tress and flowers waiting to be planted in some lucky person’s yard. The nursery was neat, orderly, well tended, and bigger than I expected, stretching on for acres. Business was good, very good.
“Turn there,” I said pointing to a dirt road that led off the main gravel drive. “We’ll hide the car back in the brush and sneak in the rest of the way.”
KiKi pointed to the gas pedal. Her sandals were pink, strappy, with little buttons and bows, and I had an instant attack of sandal envy. “They’ll get ruined if I walk in the dirt,” KiKi said looking all innocent.
“You wore those on purpose.”
“I’m not the one who wants to find Raimondo guilty. You go on foot from here, and I’ll drive in like a customer. There’s got to be men working here. I’ll look around at plants, ask a lot of irritating questions that drive nurserymen nuts, and be the decoy. We’ll meet up back here in forty-five minutes.”
“That doesn’t give me much time.”
“That’s all the decoy I can muster up for this project. Take it or leave it.”
I got my flashlight from Old Yeller, then watched KiKi motor off. Taking the dirt road to the river, I faded into a line of river birches meandering along the bank. After a few minutes, I came to a clearing with a white frame house perched on one side and a cluster of red barns with white trim some distance away. Two greenhouses sat to the rear of the barns, windows wide open to let the spring heat escape. Even from where I hid in the trees, I could see hints of pink palms in the greenhouse. I figured the barns and greenhouses were business areas, the white clapboard Raimondo’s own personal abode.
KiKi stood by her car, three men around her, looking a little befuddled. My guess is she was handing them some variation on the truth of Raimondo doing work for her and wanting to look at plants that might go in her yard. She pointed to a row of roses, then trees, and then a pile of landscape rocks. No one befuddled like Auntie KiKi. I crept over to the house, circled around to the back door, reached for the knob, and stopped dead. There in front of me as big as you please, was one of those blue-and-white ADT signs. Well, if that didn’t beat all; Raimondo’s house had a security system.
Then again, if I had a bunch of strangers wandering around my place and workers who came and went, I’d have an ADT system, too. Except so many times, people had them, got distracted, and forgot to set them. KiKi said Raimondo was really busy today. I crossed my fingers and turned the knob. No sirens, no flashing lights, no growling dog chewing on my arm. I was in!
The kitchen was neat, not crazy neat but light-years away from a messy bachelor pad. Dishes stood in a wood drying rack by the sink; three bananas sat in a basket on the table next to a stack of horticulture magazines. No crumbs, no spills, no dirty kitchen floor. I imagined Raimondo moving easily around his house, getting breakfast, sorting mail, drinking coffee, looking beautiful. I fanned though the magazines, gave the kitchen a final once-over, and spotted the end of a large, brown envelope sticking out from behind the toaster.
The rest of the mail was on the table, this envelope hidden away. It was addressed to Raimondo but handwritten, not one of those computer mass-mailing labels. It was from Estelle Smith, in Peoria, Illinois. Fan mail? Someone who knew Raimondo better than I did? Messing with mail in a mailbox was a big no–no, but it seemed to me that mail behind a toaster was more in the snooping category than federal-prison category, right? Then again, with all the other laws I’d broken recently, second-guessing a brown envelope was a waste of time. Pinching together the little brad on the back of the envelope, I pulled up the flap and slid the contents onto the table.
There were notes, drawings, and pictures of an incredible pink rosebush. I flipped through photos of people enjoying Christmas. Raimondo hugging an older woman with blonde hair, Raimondo with a middle-aged man and a woman, Raimondo opening presents and drinking a Miller Light. I always thought of Raimondo stretched out in one of those gondolas in Venice with a glass of wine and a sultry Italian beauty on his lap, not doing Christmas in Peoria. Who were these people?
I put the envelope back and started down the hall. The house was small; somehow on the outside it looked bigger. Raimondo’s bedroom was a decent size with a queen bed not made, a nightstand, lamps, and a workingman’s desk. I rummaged though bills, receipts, a phone number for Clark, Dedmond, and Rice Accountants, and a postcard saying he was overdue at the dentist. I heard the back door open and close and nearly fainted dead away.
What happened to “no time to meet” and “busy as a one-armed paperhanger”? Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall, and I quickly crept into the bathroom off the bedroom and flattened myself against the white tile wall behind the door. The bathroom was neat and tidy. No dirty-clothes hamper to crawl into or shower curtain to hide behind. Raimondo had one of those new super jet showers that blasted the dirt right off.
I peeked though the crack between the door and the jamb. Raimondo wasn’t in the bedroom, but I could hear him rummaging around in another room. When he came through the door, he wore skivvies and really nice muscles in all the right places. Sweet Jesus! Mamma never told me there’d be days like this, but she should have!
I bit my finger to squelch an appreciative sigh. Any lusty thing any woman in Savannah ever said or thought about Raimondo Baldassare was spot–on. Raimondo tossed his cell to the bed, then opened his dresser drawer and yanked out clean clothes. Raimondo was going to take a shower! From the odor drifting my way, I could understand why. What happened to the poor guy? Something with manure happened, that’s what. Horticulture wasn’t all pretty flowers and pink palms.
His cell phone rang, and he snagged it from the bed. He talked about a putting green. KiKi! She must have seen Raimondo come in, but her cell-phone diversion didn’t work. I was trapped in the bathroom with no way out except through the bedroom. The only place to hide was a closet on the other side. I hated closets. I hated dead more. I crept carefully to the other side and opened the closet door just enough to squeeze though. I could hear more rummaging around in the bedroom an
d flipped on my flashlight to see if by some miracle granted by the saints of breaking and entering there happened to be a window and I could get out.
Except this wasn’t a closet at all. It was a room with one of those fancy workout machines and a really nice tanning bed, which looked like a long space-age clam.
Footsteps came closer, going from carpet to tile. My heart was beating so hard in my chest that I put my hand over it to muffle the noise. Raimondo was in the bathroom. If Raimondo had killed Cupcake and he found me, I was toast. I thought of Bruce Willis without a doggie mommy, KiKi without someone to drive her nuts, and my cold dead body buried between the dogwoods and crabapples. I needed to hide, and all I saw was the clam. I started to hyperventilate at the thought of being wrapped up like a burrito in a tanning bed. I considered the alternative, which wouldn’t have me breathing at all. I stretched out on the cool glass, pulled down the lid, and tried not to think how much this resembled a coffin. There was a four-inch gap between the top and the bottom of the bed. I clenched my teeth, focused my attention outside the shell, and turned off my flashlight. My heart raced; I could hear it. I was going to faint. At least I was lying down.
The door to the little room opened, and the overhead lights came on. I could see Raimondo walking around the room. He came over to the bed, his bare muscled leg right beside me. There was a click, and the lights in the bed blazed. I heaved a mental sigh of relief. Little spaces were easier to take when there was light.
His phone rang; this time it was the one out on the desk. I heard Raimondo walk out of the room. Shielding my eyes from the harsh glare, I could see him at his desk, pacing, still clad in his tighty-whiteys, and I would appreciate the view a lot more if it wasn’t getting so freaking hot in here! So this was hell on earth; a tiny little space where I was cooked alive. My arms, hands, neck, face, and legs started to prickle, that dry, tingly feeling on my skin before I burned.
Raimondo’s conversation went on and on. I couldn’t get out of the bed. Raimondo would see me for sure. Minutes ticked by. I started to sweat. Reagan au jus. This was it; there was no way out. Raimondo would find me parboiled in his tanning bed, and I didn’t even have on the cute yellow dress I wouldn’t mind being caught dead in.
