by Brown, Duffy
“Grass.”
“Oh for pity’s sake, look a little harder.”
“Sky, clouds, walkway, birdbath, garden maintained by delish Italian gardener with a great butt that every woman in Savannah wants to sink her teeth into.”
KiKi gave me a long slow stare. “Where in the world did the gardener come from?”
“I have no idea.” Actually I did, but I wasn’t about to fess up about my sexless life in front of my dear, sweet auntie.
“Every single garden in Savannah is just like mine except for the delish gardener part,” KiKi went on. “Why my oleander bush alone could wipe out all of Savannah.”
“It’s nothing but a bush.”
“That’s what you think. Nearly ever part is poisonous. If you even drink the water oleander flowers sit in, you’re off to that great garden in the sky. If you mash up foxglove leaves, you have digitalis. The garden club did a program called Pretty Poisonous Posies last spring, and I couldn’t eat anything green for a week. My guess is when the police crime lab autopsied Scumbucket the overdose of digitalis popped up, and the honey bourbon was the last thing he had to drink. Anyone wanting to get rid of the Scumbucket had the perfect opportunity with Gloria heading over to his place with a bottle of hooch. Scumbucket was high profile, and anyone who watches TV these days knows there’d be an autopsy. The killer pops in and poisons Seymour easy as can be, and Gloria Summerside winds up suspect number one.”
“Mamma and Scumbucket argued, took it out onto the sidewalk, someone dumped in the digitalis, poured the drink, took the bottle, and left. How would they know Scumbucket would leave with Mamma?”
“It was a good possibility no matter how the meeting went that Seymour would leave his office sooner or later. He had stuff to do. Anyone with a button and a smile could mosey in just like we did.”
“Boone said Seymour had enemies. My guess is one of them did him in.”
“Oh, honey, your mamma has enemies, too, and their mean-looking ornery pictures once graced the walls of our local post office. They have families who aren’t fond of your mamma one little bit. Framing her for murder would be sweet revenge indeed for the whole bunch. Either way, when the police find that bourbon bottle hidden somewhere, but not too well hidden, Gloria’s goose is cooked. Her fingerprints will be all over it. The route from her campaign headquarters to Seymour’s takes her right past her own house with foxglove foliage aplenty. Doesn’t take much to mash up a few deadly leaves and be on her merry way. She has motive, means, and opportunity.”
“But so far it’s all circumstantial. There’s no smoking gun or in this case bourbon bottle.” I glanced at the clock trying to think of a good escape plan. I had an idea and didn’t want KiKi in on it. “I’ve got to get the Fox ready, and you better get that green stuff off your face before it sticks permanent like. Don’t you have some dance lessons this morning? I bet you have classes booked up all day with the Christmas cotillion right around the corner.”
“Uh-oh. You’re babbling and you’re flipping your hair. You always flip your hair when you’re into something you shouldn’t be. Signing that prenup with Hollis nearly made you bald.”
I grabbed a chunk of cake and stuffed it in my mouth to prevent more babbling and hurried out the door. The problem with family is they know all your quirks and you can’t get away with squat. Whoever killed Scumbucket ditched the bottle somewhere it could be found like in Dumpsters, trashcans, black plastic bags with smelly God knows what inside.
This was not the first dead-body event KiKi and I had encountered. Lately the two of us had an abundance of dead-body juju. I tried my darndest to keep dear auntie out of harm’s way and spare her angst. Gross black bags and Dumpsters fell in the angst category. That KiKi got trapped on a rooftop and leaped from a fire escape meant I failed miserably in the harm’s way category.
The cops would be looking for the liquor bottle, and they’d be doing it early before trash pickup. I didn’t have much time to find that bottle! I gave BW a quick potty break, did the scoop thing, dropped the baggie in the trash, and stopped dead in my tracks. The heavens parted, a bright light shown down, and a choir of celestial angels sang the “Hallelujah Chorus.” There, right in my very own garbage can, was a half-empty bottle of honey bourbon. I’m not one of those who believe God controls every little detail of our lives, but once in a while, the Big Guy above reaches down and saves the day.
I snagged a piece of paper towel from the garbage and plucked out the bottle. All I had to do was wipe it clean of fingerprints and throw it in the river for good measure and—
“Well, well what do we have there?” came Detective Ross’s voice behind me.
My heart stopped dead. “Honey bourbon,” I said. “I love the stuff.” I faced Ross and two cops. “Need to get to an AA meeting.” I was in babbling mode again and had no cake to save me.
“I’ll take that bottle.”
“Not without a search warrant you won’t.” KiKi had her cardio hubby, and I had my legal-eagle Mamma.
Ross reached in her purse that probably weighed as much as she did, pulled out a paper with the Chatham County seal on top, Warrant in the middle, and my address below signed by Judge Crooksy. Crooksy never did like Mamma. Ross snagged the bottle out of my hand and dropped it in a big plastic baggie. Her face morphed into a frown. “You should know that I hate doing this; I truly do. Your mamma is a fine judge and would be a terrific alderman. I get why she knocked off Seymour. If dirty politics were an Olympic event, he’d win the gold. Your mamma should have hidden the bottle in a better place, is all.”
“See, that’s just it,” I said, trying to reason with Ross. “Don’t you think it’s a little odd that a criminal judge would make a stupid mistake like hiding damning evidence in such an obvious place as her daughter’s garbage can? After all her years on the bench she’d know how to commit a perfect crime, right? This bottle was planted by the real killer; you’ve got to see that. Besides, Mamma would never toss glass into the garbage. She recycles!”
“Maybe she thought Seymour’s death would be attributed to an accidental overdose of his heart medication and wouldn’t go any further than that. Maybe she intended to come get the bottle later today. Maybe she thought the trash collectors would be here by now. And maybe you’re right as rain. It’s up to the DA and lawyers to prove what’s what and sort out the facts. I’m just doing my job.”
“But you’re wrong.”
Ross and cohorts drove off with the damning bottle, and KiKi hurried across her perfect Kentucky bluegrass and onto my Georgia weed grass. She was barefoot, orange hair rollers still in place, red dancing skirt swirling around her knees, and a blotch of green still clinging to the tip of her nose. “Why was Ross here? I saw her out the bedroom window. I do declare the woman’s like the plague. Having her around wreaks havoc and mayhem on us all.”
“There was a honey bourbon bottle in my garbage of all places, and my guess is it’s the one Mamma brought to Scumbucket’s place. Now Ross is off to match fingerprints, and then she’ll arrest Mamma.”
KiKi plopped right down on the grass, red skirt billowing up, giving her a stuffed-tomato appearance. “Oh, honey. Jail’s a mighty bad place if you’re a cop; it’s got to be even worse if you’re a criminal judge.”
My mouth went dry. I hadn’t even thought of that. Mamma’s situation had just gone from bad to disastrous. I hauled KiKi to her feet. “You get to Mamma and protect her somehow till I get there. I’m going to see a man about life insurance. Hurry.”
I locked BW inside then hoofed it down Gwinnett. Ross was gonna do what she had to do, and I had to get Mamma help from someone experienced with the inner workings of jail. My knowledge about the place came from watching Law and Order when I had a TV and playing Monopoly when I was a kid.
Without wheels I was on first-name basis with the drivers of the Savannah mass-transit system known as Old Gray. I stood in the street and waved my arms over my head. The bus growled to a halt, double doors fold
ed back, and a woman resembling Ice Cube—the younger years, minus the facial hair—peered down at me.
“Girl, you know this ain’t no taxi that picks you up when you feel the need. You’re supposed to get yourself to an official stop and wait like everyone else in this here city for the bus to come to you.”
“Earlene.” I jumped inside so she couldn’t motor on without me. “I have a situation.”
“You always got a situation.” She tipped back her navy uniform cap and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for me to deposit my fare.
“I sort of ran off without my purse, and I need to get to Seventeenth Street.”
“Seventeenth Street?” Her eyes arched over her sunglasses, and the four passengers on board scurried out the rear door. “You need to get yourself somewhere else.”
“I’ll pay you twice tomorrow, I swear.”
More finger drumming, eyes on the fare box, no bus movement.
“I’ll bring you a meatloaf sandwich from Parker’s, throw in a pickle and two chocolate chip cookies.”
I got a tapping foot and a finger jabbing where my money should be. Time was of the essence, and I was getting nowhere. Mamma could be in big trouble right this very minute. “I’ll . . . I’ll fix you up with Big Joey.” Did I really say that?
The finger drumming stopped. Earlene sat back in her cushy seat. “You wouldn’t be stringing old Earlene along just to get your way, now would you? I have brothers. I know where you live.”
“Big Joey and I are tight.” I held up two fingers, crossed them good-buddy style. “I’m going over to his place to ask a favor right now.”
“Well, tickle my giblets and call me Butterball.” Old Gray lurched forward. I grabbed for the nearest silver pole and held on for dear life. “Girl, you done got yourself a deal. Always wanted to be hanging off that man’s arm. He is one fine-looking stud. For some quality time with Big Joey, I can make this baby fly like the wind.”
Ten minutes later, after jumping curbs and scaring the dickens out of a flock of tourists, I arrived at the corner of Seventeenth Street and got me the heck off this thing.
“So when’s Mr. Hot-Stuff going to be giving me a call?” Earlene asked as I leaped to the ground, sheer willpower keeping me from kneeling down and kissing the sidewalk.
“Soon, very soon.” I pictured St. Peter putting a big X next to my name for when I got to the Pearly Gates after Big Joey tossed my lifeless carcass in the nearest alligator infested swamp. But I’d deal with all that later. I gave Earlene a little finger wave as she motored off, then headed down Seventeenth Street.
The houses were smaller in this part of town, closer, rougher. Yards were more red clay than green grass. Massive limbs of live oaks draped a green awning over the streets and cracked sidewalks. Spanish moss gave a touch of tired quaintness. Three brothers fell in step behind me. Well, gee whiz, my very own private escort complete with politically incorrect comments accompanying totally gross slurpy sounds.
This would be a little unnerving to a novice Seventeenth Street invader, but I’d been here before. Sometimes it worked out better than others. Big Joey’s house was nestled between two pink crape myrtle trees that would make the Savannah garden club salivate. I climbed the gray weathered stairs to the porch and rapped on the door.
“White woman. What you doing here on my porch?” Joey asked, giving my companions the it’s-cool nod. Today Joey had on Diesel jeans, a green T-shirt that fit like a second skin, showing off well-tuned biceps polished to an Armor All sheen, and sideburns trailing onto his chin. Seventeenth Street Savannah does The Wire.
“I need another favor.”
“Do tell.” Joey came out on the porch and parked his very nice backside on the porch railing. “What I get?”
“The gratitude of a criminal judge or at least a criminal judge’s daughter. Ross is arresting Mamma as we speak. She’ll get out on bail, but she’ll be in jail for a few hours, and it may not be good for her health if you get my drift.”
“She should get private accommodations; she’s a judge.”
“But if she doesn’t and she’s in with others who have it in for her . . .”
Big Joey shoved his hands in his pockets. “My cousin’s doing a nickel upstate ’cause of your mamma.”
“Did he deserve it?”
“There is that.” Big Joey slid an iPhone from his pocket and punched around on the screen. “Done. Mamma bear safe and sound. Guillotine Gloria is one hardass, but fair. Besides, she and Boone are tight, and you got to respect that.”
Before I could ask, respect what?, Big Joey looked at his phone and read, “Says Ross is at the courthouse now and some woman is having herself a flat-out hissy fit.” He turned the phone screen my way, showing me the picture.
“That’s my auntie KiKi. I gotta go.”
Big Joey grinned as I hopped down the steps. “Your family never disappoints. Later, babe.”
I headed for West Oglethorpe. To save going around the block I darted in the back door of Ma Hanna’s Chicken and Waffles and out the front door, snagging a chicken leg along the way thanks to my giving Hanna a good price on a Coach purse the other day. I cut across the Civic Center and arrived at the courthouse half dead from overexertion but well fed with my drumstick. Usually the center of our local judicial system was a hubbub of subdued activity, the guilty of Savannah content to keep their sins on the QT. Today, “Leave my sister be!” echoed through the corridors.
Oh sweet Jesus! Kiki had herself spread-eagle across Mamma’s courtroom doors.
“I have to do my job,” Ross said. “That’s why the taxpayers pay me. Back away, Miss KiKi. You’re only making things worse.”
“Never! Like Cher says, ‘Someone has to pay for the frogs and dancing fairies.’”
“What are you doing?” I asked KiKi after I elbowed my way to the front of the crowd. “What do frogs and fairies have to do with anything?”
Auntie KiKi cut her eyes my way. “It’s a mite tense around here in case you didn’t notice. That’s the only Cher quote I could think of. You told me to protect Gloria, and I’m protecting her best I know how. Should have brought along Putter’s nine iron for good measure.”
“I need a doughnut bad,” Ross muttered on a long sigh while rubbing her forehead. She nodded to the officers beside her, and they peeled Auntie KiKi off the doors and put her in handcuffs as Mamma erupted into the hall, black robes trailing behind.
“What in heaven’s name is going on, KiKi? Why are you here? What is this all about?”
“Judge Gloria Summerside,” Ross said, pulling another set of handcuffs from her purse for those days when two bad guys—or gals—had to get hauled off to the poky. “You are under arrest for the murder of Kipling Seymour. You have the right to remain silent . . .”
I lost the rest in a flurry of gasps, picture taking, and the swelling multitude of kibitzers reveling in the irony of a judge getting arrested.
“You can’t do this.” KiKi’s voice ricocheted off the walls. “I’ll sue. I’ll protest. I won’t teach your kids the foxtrot.”
I grabbed Ross’s arm and looked her dead in the eyes. “That’s my mamma and my auntie you’ve got there. You can’t put them both in jail.”
Ross glared at my hand. “You looking to join the party?”
“I don’t care what you do to me, but you can’t lock up my fam—” I was yanked backward into the crowd, my protests dying in my throat as I struggled not to fall on my behind while Ross, the cops, Mamma, and Auntie KiKi paraded on to the slammer.
Chapter Four
“LET me go!”
Boone hustled me out of the courthouse through the arched doorway and around the corner to the parking lot. Yanking open the door of the Chevy, he pushed me in. “For your mother’s sake, calm down.”
I shoved against the door, but with big, bad, and ugly leaning against it the door didn’t budge. “What are you doing here?”
“Keeping you out of jail. Any more Summersi
des arrested today and Ross loses the paperwork and you all spend the night in a concrete room sharing facilities with the underbelly of Savannah society. And Big Joey wants you safe and sound. Something about settling a score over a bus driver sitting on his front porch.”
It wasn’t even ten, and I had my family behind bars and Big Joey less than thrilled with my matchmaking efforts. I gulped in some breaths to clear my brain and get my blood pressure below raving lunatic. “How long will it take Mamma and KiKi to get out?”
“A few hours with the right attorney. Go home. Run your shop. You can ride shotgun or in the trunk. Your mother’s done me a couple of favors over the years, and I’m doing likewise getting you out of the way.”
Boone took the driver’s side, and I stayed put. He’d toss me in the trunk in a heartbeat. The Chevy circled Franklin Square, named after favorite son Ben, and headed across West Congress. It would be a great day to be cruising in a convertible if my world wasn’t crumbling down around my ears. “Can we at least stop at the Cakery Bakery?”
“You had a chicken leg. Quit whining.”
“Okay, since you’re such a smartass and know about Mamma and my chicken leg and Big Joey, maybe you know who knocked off Seymour. In case you didn’t get the memo, things are looking particularly bad for Mamma, and best I can figure, it’s someone who didn’t like Seymour and is using Mamma as a patsy or someone out to get even with Mamma.”
We stopped for a light, a campaign poster of Gloria Summerside adorned with mustache and devil horns staring back at me, activating little gray cells in my brain. “Or maybe . . .”
“Forget or maybe, Blondie. Nothing good comes from you and maybe.”
“Or maybe someone who doesn’t want Seymour or Mamma elected. It’s just two weeks till the election. There’s got to be a connection between the campaign and Seymour’s death. Why not just off the jackass any old time.”
I felt instantly better with an actual alternative suspect in my sites. “Archie Lee! He’s the third candidate. Mamma and Scumbucket are out of the picture, and Archie Lee wins the election. Bingo! Perfect fit.”
