“I like your hair,” I complimented when she stopped in front of me. She was a blonde today—lavender blonde. Had the whole Nancy Sinatra thing down cold. “You’re going to give the ladies at L’Elite a heart attack when you walk through that door.”
“Shit, baby, them bitches know who Lady Sugar is.”
She led the way and pushed open the front door of the exclusive boutique. A man came out of the back room and smiled pleasantly at me. His eyes swung around to Sugar and seemed to take a minute to reconcile the creature standing in front of him. When he did, his skin paled.
“Well, what do you know?” Sugar planted her hand on her hip and grinned at the stunned man. “How’s your mama and them, Javier?”
His mouth opened but he seemed lost for words. A moment later a woman came through the same doorway and did a damn good job of ignoring the giant orange Creamsicle in the room. “Miss Bishop?” she asked.
“That would be me.”
“I’m Sarah Winfield. I’ll be assisting you today.” She shook my hand and studied my form discreetly. Most people wouldn’t have noticed her wandering eyes assessing me like some charitable project, but I caught every glance.
She turned to Sugar with a forced smile. “And you are?”
“I’m Miss Bishop’s personal stylist,” Sugar announced, extending her hand with a large mood ring on her middle finger. “Sugar, but you can call me Miss Mobley.”
The woman hesitated but eventually took Sugar’s long outstretched fingers, barely shaking it before pulling away, resisting the urge to excuse herself to wash it. Her distaste was palpable.
“Finley Cooper sent me,” I said, providing a reprieve from all the bigotry monopolizing the room. “I need something to wear to the Crossroads Society ball this weekend.”
She eyed the tattoo peeking over my shoulder and continuing down my arm. “Were you thinking strapless? Or perhaps something a little less revealing?”
My bigot radar was through the roof. Smug, insufferable bit—
“Miss Bishop would prefer strapless,” Sugar interjected before I could. “With a body like that, wouldn’t you?”
Sarah Winfield ignored Sugar and marched over to a rack against the far wall. “It’ll be a stretch to have it fitted in time for Saturday but I think we can manage, seeing how you’re a friend of Mr. Cooper’s.”
“We’re not friends,” I added, not knowing why I bothered.
She smirked knowingly, as if I’d just stated the obvious. “But he is paying for the dress, yes?”
“He better be,” Sugar muttered, diving into the dresses and shuffling through them like it was the clearance rack at Walmart.
Sarah’s eyes went wide. “Please don’t touch the dresses.” She stepped between Sugar and the rack, then pointed to a seating area near the front door. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting over there.”
“Sugar would mind.” Her head bobbed from side to side as she shot Sarah Winfield a warning look.
“It’s okay, Sugar,” I said, defusing the ticking bomb before it went off. “I’m not deciding on anything without your approval, but let’s give Miss Winfield a little room to do her job.”
Sugar brushed the bangs from her eyes and reluctantly headed for one of the upholstered chairs. “You got any coffee up in here? Any cap-o-chino or express-o?” she mocked. She glanced at Javier, who still seemed to be in a bit of shock at seeing her in his place of business. My gut told me Javier led a pretty colorful life outside the walls of L’Elite, and at the moment he was terrified that Sugar might say something that would sully his employer’s opinion of him.
“Would you get Miss Mobley a refreshment, Javier?” Winfield said.
The man disappeared to the back to get the coffee. He reemerged a minute later carrying a tray with a carafe and a small pitcher of cream. As he set it down on the table next to Sugar, he gave her a pleading look for mercy. Sugar just grinned, holding the poor man’s balls hostage.
Sarah carefully sorted through the dresses, stopping on a blue gown that simmered like a million sapphires being tossed into the sky as she swung it around for dramatic effect. It was a floor-length, strapless gown of sequins with a thigh-high cut on one side. “This one would go beautifully with your eyes,” she said. “I must say, Miss Bishop, they’re quite extraordinary. Are they real?”
I’d been told more than once that my eyes were a reflection of Elizabeth Taylor’s, and my jet-black hair only enhanced that comparison. “They’re all mine,” I answered. “The hair is mine too, just in case you were wondering if I used Black #1.”
“Touché,” Sugar proclaimed quietly over the rim of her cup.
“That was a compliment, Miss Bishop.” She continued searching the rack and pulled out a red dress with a plunging neckline and long sleeves. “This one would complement your hair nicely.” She grabbed a third option that was somewhere in the middle. Pink with shoulder straps, a sweetheart neckline, and a wide tulle skirt. “The dressing room is this way.”
I figured I’d get the non-contender out of the way first. There was no way I was wearing the pink contraption out in public, and I was surprised Sugar even allowed it in the dressing room. The tulle shirt had matching tulle sleeves that partially concealed the tattoos running down my arm, and the only ink in full view was the dragon peeking out around my neck. If I wore my hair down it would hide most of it.
Sarah Winfield brightened up when I stepped out from the dressing room, I suspected because she’d done a fair job of hiding my marks. “Now that is lovely, Miss Bishop.”
“Oh, hell no!” Sugar spat. “This ain’t no damn prom.” She got up from her chair and marched over to me, spinning me around to get a closer look at the hot mess of pink I was wearing. “And this ain’t no damn silk anyway. What is this?” she asked, feeling the tulle skirt. “Nylon or polyester?”
I thought Sarah Winfield was going to combust before our very eyes. “That is silk, Miss Mobley. Where do you think you are? Dressbarn?”
Sugar ignored the reference. “You got two real nice dresses in that room, Katie. Go on in there and show this imposter what a real woman looks like.”
Winfield held her tongue, but I could see her trembling from the outrage of having to swallow it and abide by the mantra of the customer is always right. Pissing off a customer referred by a top client was tantamount to professional suicide.
Being my favorite, I decided to try the blue dress on next. As I was unzipping the back, I noticed a tag pinned to the inside. I assumed Miss Winfield had forgotten to remove it before leaving the dressing room, because a place like this usually didn’t bother letting the customer know the price of a gown until after they’d fallen in love with it. The tag contained details about the fabric and the designer—and the price of thirty-six hundred dollars. I nearly choked. Maybe it was a rental that I’d be expected to dry clean and return after the ball.
“Do you need help with the zipper?” Winfield offered.
“I’m fine.” I struggled with it but preferred to slip into the dress without the judgmental saleswoman eyeing the full tattoo on my back. It was fitted but offered some relief where the split began on the upper part of my thigh. When I stepped outside the dressing room everyone gasped. Sugar slowly nodded her head and release her breath like a proud mama, while Miss Winfield eyed my exposed tattoos in horror.
Sugar picked up on it and set the record straight. “This woman is showing you exactly who she is and doing it proudly.”
A garble of gibberish slipped from Winfield’s mouth as she clearly tried to respond intelligently. “Well, there are ways to express yourself without offending anyone.”
“Offending anyone,” Sugar repeated, flabbergasted by the ignorance—and stupidity—of Sara Winfield. “What the hell do you think she should wear? A potato sack?” She waved her hand around me. “Because that’s the only thing that’s gonna cover up all this art. And art ain’t meant to be censored.”
“Let me remind both of you that the Crossroads So
ciety is paying for this dress. They patronize this shop for more than just the designs and quality—they also expect a certain level of discretion.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Sugar said, eyeing Winfield like she wanted to boot the woman in the ass. “Let me explain something to you, lady. Miss Bishop will be back on Friday afternoon to pick up that little blue dress she’ll be wearing to the ball, after you’ve taken the time to alter it, of course. You may not agree with her style, but I don’t think she much cares for yours either.” Sugar glance at me standing like a statue in front of the octagon of mirrors. “Do you, Katie?”
“Not particularly.”
She turned back to Sarah Winfield. “Now show me the damn shoes.”
I picked out a pair of matching blue satin Manolo Blahniks. Sugar had argued for the Louboutin pumps covered with hematite stones encased in silver, but I couldn’t stomach the idea of drawing any more attention to myself than the dress—and tattoos—already would.
We left L’Elite with my shoes and headed for the cars parked a few blocks away. Sarah Winfield—with her hefty commission—escorted us to the door and assured me the dress would be ready by six p.m. Friday evening. Under normal circumstances alterations usually took weeks, but it was clear that the Crossroads Society pulled some heavy strings in Savannah and didn’t wait for anyone. The question was—why? If Sugar knew she sure wasn’t talking, but I also knew she wouldn’t let me walk straight into danger without a warning. She made it clear I needed to direct all questions about the society to Finely Cooper himself.
We reached the lot where we’d parked. Sugar climbed into her ancient Cadillac Eldorado—that by the grace of God was still running—and rolled down her window as I walked away. “You need some help with your makeup Saturday night?”
“Makeup I can handle. But I can use some help with my hair,” I quickly added when I saw the disappointment on her face. “Come by my place around five o’clock. We can get drunk before I leave.”
She laughed and accepted my invitation. “You know, Katie, you just walked out of that shop with about four thousand dollars’ worth of freebies.”
“Five thousand,” I corrected, still wondering if it all needed to be returned Monday morning.
She grinned but quickly sobered up as she cranked the sleepy engine a couple of times. It moaned a bit but eventually turned over. “That’s a hell of a gift from a stranger,” she said as she shifted into drive and started to pull away. “You might want to think on that.”
6
For three days, I thought about what Sugar had said to me. Why would a group of strangers invest enough money to buy a fairly decent used car into a stranger just to get her to attend a ball? I figured this Victor Tuse guy with the killer tattoo had to be legit, and tonight I was about to get a little more insight into why the spirit chose me—and let me live—to break the binds of his prison.
I came home the night before to find another note on my doorstep, informing me that a car would be sent to pick me up at seven-thirty. That cleared up the problem of locating the ball, seeing how the invitation didn’t give an address.
Prompt as ever, Sugar knocked on my door a five o’clock sharp. Today she was a brunette stuck in the eighties, wearing ten pound earrings and a vintage Madonna T-shirt. She took one look at my dull and fatigued eyes and shook her head. “Oh no, baby,” she said, heading for the kitchen. “You got to be razor sharp tonight.” She filled the kettle with water and pulled a paper bag out of her purse. “I was afraid of this. You been gnawing on worry all week, haven’t you?” When the water was near a boil, she filled a mug and dumped a teabag of herbs into it. “Drink this.”
“What is it?” I asked, wary about consuming an unknown substance just before I had to slip on a thirty-six-hundred-dollar dress and pretend I knew how to act in one. I was nervous enough. The last thing I needed was to be altered in any way.
She tapped her fingernails on the countertop, waiting for me to comply. “Sugar knows her herbs, baby. There’s all kinds of root folks around here and my mama raised her a good one.”
I brought the cup to my lips tentatively. “I didn’t know you were into that kind of stuff.”
“Honey, you got to be a survivor when the good Lord gives you something different. Them herbs is backup. You about to walk into the lion’s den, and the last thing you need is to go in there looking like their next meal. Now drink it up.”
I drank the tea, and within a few minutes I had my energy back and a bright set of blue eyes. It seemed counterproductive to mix up a batch of margaritas, but Sugar assured me that one little drink wouldn’t hurt, and would in fact enhance the concoction of herbs.
“So what do you know about the people I’ll be rubbing elbows with tonight?” I asked as we sipped our drinks on the patio. She’d been intentionally holding back information since the day Finley Cooper walked into my shop. “Don’t you think I should be prepared before walking in there tonight?”
She took a steady breath, staring at the line of trees in the backyard. “You about to meet some pretty powerful folks, Katie. Kind of people whose ancestors built this city. Kind of people you don’t want on your bad side.” Her glass landed on the table as she turned to look at me. “Whatever you do tonight, don’t you let them smell your fear. I don’t care if you got to swallow down ten bourbons to keep you cocky, you shove that fear down deep.”
“Good to know,” I said, heading to the kitchen for another drink.
“Hell no, girl!” Sugar followed me and peeled my fingers off the pitcher. “I said one. Ain’t nothing good gonna come from getting you smashed before you even get there.”
“You haven’t seen me drink, Sugar.”
“May be, but them herbs might think otherwise.” She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the bedroom. “Let’s get that hair up so we can make your face.”
“It might be better if I wear it down. I don’t want to offend Savannah’s finest before I have a chance to introduce myself.”
She dropped my arm and braced her hips, straightening her posture for what I assumed was about be a good tongue lashing. “You got all this”—she waved her hand up and down my body—“and you think the first thing they gonna see is that ink on your skin? If I had your looks I’d be running down Bull Street naked.”
My brow raised. “I bet you’ve actually done that, haven’t you?”
“Goddamn right.” Her righteous look lost its grit. “You got to know who you are, Katie B, and like it. Can’t worry about what anyone else wants you to be.” Her eyes softened and I could see a lifetime of lessons learned stirring behind them. “Now what’s it gonna be?”
She followed me into the bedroom as I sat in a chair and handed her my brush. “Put it up. Turn me into a siren, Sugar.”
A dark gray Bentley Mulsanne pulled up to my curb at exactly seven-thirty. I had to look twice through the window to make sure it was stopping at my house and not just taking a shortcut back to West Charlton Street.
Sugar walked me out and eyed the car. “Mmhmm. That’s what I thought. Them fat cats are already showing you some real ass-kissing, besides that dress you got on.” She glanced at my sparkling blue gown and then licked her palm to smooth the sides of my chignon.
“That’s kind of gross, Sugar.”
Ignoring my protest, she finished grooming me. “I’ll call you in the morning to make sure them lions didn’t eat you.”
The driver got out and opened the back door for me. I stepped inside, feeling a little bit like that sacrificial lamb Sugar inadvertently suggested. I had to keep in mind that the people I was about to meet needed me for some yet to be revealed reason, and if they turned out to be more foe than friend, my dragon would step up and put an end to it. The part that worried me the most was the emergence of said dragon unexpectedly, without any real provocation. I had no intention of revealing what I was unless it was absolutely necessary.
The seats were covered in the finest leather I’d ever had the pleasur
e of wearing or sitting on. It wasn’t until I notice my house disappearing from view that I realized the car was moving. “Damn,” I muttered. “This must be what the Concorde feels like.”
“Did you say something, Miss Bishop?”
“Nope. Just taking it all in.”
The driver smiled at me through the rearview mirror and suggested I look inside the cabinet between the seats. I pushed the button at the top and the cover descended into a makeshift bar, revealing chilled flutes with a bottle of champagne between them. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Bishop.”
I could drink hard liquor and red wine all night, but hell hath no fury on a mixture of champagne with any other kind of alcohol, at least in my experience. “Where are we going?” I asked. As I spoke the black shades on the side windows automatically closed, blocking my view of the outside. “What is this?”
“No need for alarm, Miss Bishop. The location of the ball must be kept private for security purposes. We’ll arrive shortly.”
Since I had no intention of jumping from a moving Bentley and I had a feeling the doors would be locked even if I tried, I settled back in the luxurious seats and calmed my overactive imagination. Don’t you let them smell your fear. Sugar’s sage advice kept repeating in my head.
The car shifted right, and through the front window I could see a large house in the distance. As we approached, I could hear the tires transition from the asphalt pavement of the main road onto something that sounded more like cobblestone. We came to a stop and the black shades receded from the windows, giving me a view of the elaborate double staircase leading up to the front door. Standing on those steps was Finley Cooper, wearing a midnight blue tuxedo with black satin lapels and bow tie.
“Miss Bishop,” Cooper greeted as the driver opened the door to help me out. My leg exited first, the fabric sliding away from my skin all the way up to the top of my thigh. I was so nervous I’d forgotten about the exaggerated split up the side of the dress. When I glanced up both men were staring at my leg. The driver quickly recovered and got on with the task of helping me out of the Bentley, but Cooper didn’t flinch. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he wanted me to see him eyeing my thigh. He was a good-looking man but a little old for me. Too much of a daddy figure. “That’s a beautiful dress you’re wearing. I trust you found Miss Winfield to be accommodating?”
Crossroads of Bones (A Katie Bishop Novel Book 1) Page 5
