Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery)

by Brown, Duffy

  The place was long and narrow; wood bar lining one side; mismatched tables; ESPN on the tube; neon signs for Miller, Samuel Adams, Heineken, and the like dotting the wall; peanut shells on the floor. It was always in various stages of busy and tonight even more so because right above the old mahogany mirrored bar was a big red, white, and blue sign proclaiming “Archie Lee . . . wins!”

  “What do you think about that?” I asked Chantilly, both of us staring at the proclamation.

  “In hopes of a nice, peaceful night how about we go with this here sign being the power of positive thinking, and confidence is a virtue?”

  “What about overconfidence? Sounds suspicious if you ask me. A little too overly positive considering Mamma hasn’t been found guilty. I wonder what Archie Lee has to say for himself?”

  Chantilly headed for the bar. “Sweet mother in heaven, it’s gonna be one of those nights, I can tell.”

  Chapter Five

  CHANTILLY and I commandeered two stools at the end of the bar and ordered Miller Lights. “This seat taken?” Pillsbury sallied up to Chantilly, draping his piggy bank–tattooed arm around her, followed by a kiss on the cheek. He and I exchanged pleasantries, but the lovebirds were soon lost in their own little world, leaving me to come up with a tactful way to accuse Archie Lee of knocking off Scumbucket and framing Mamma. Archie Lee had the looks and temperament of Danny DeVito, making him one popular barkeep . . . usually. Heard tell the flipside was Archie Lee provoked.

  “So,” I said over the din as Archie Lee refilled my bowl of boiled peanuts. “The election’s looking pretty good for you with Seymour and Summerside out of the way.”

  “Need another beer?”

  “How do you like campaigning?”

  A barmaid called out an order, and Archie pulled the spigot on two beers, foam running over the top and dripping down the side.

  “We don’t serve champagne here. We’re a beer and whiskey joint,” Archie yelled back to me and handed off the mugs to the waitress as another patron elbowed in with an order for three Black and Blues, another one of those burnt tar drinks.

  Okay, this was going nowhere. The place was crowded, Archie Lee was busy as a one-armed paperhanger in a windstorm, and I needed someone who liked to chat. I tossed a few bills on the bar, dumped the nuts in a basket on the nearest table, and went in search of a boiled-peanut refill along with information. A hallway with chipped green paint and century-old dinged chair rail led out the back, and I followed it, taking a detour toward some racket and a small kitchen area.

  “What are you doing back here?” a guy with Popeye muscles and Dr. Phil hair asked. Using a canoe paddle, he stirred a huge pot boiling over an old black stove propped up on one side by a two-by-four chunk of wood.

  Being all Little Miss Dazed and Confused, I held up my empty basket. “Looking for a peanut refill. They’re kind of busy out front, thought I’d try back here. Well, my goodness gracious, is this how you make them?”

  “They don’t make themselves, sweetheart. You got to leave. This is no place to be.”

  “Everyone thinks you all make the best boiled peanuts in Savannah. Hope that doesn’t stop now that Archie Lee might wind up an alderman. You think he’s really serious about taking the job?”

  “Looking forward to it as best I can tell. I can handle things around here when he’s off being mister good citizen.” Popeye popped the tops on twelve bottles of Guinness, dumped them into the caldron, then added boxes of Old Bay seasoning. He stirred the brew, yellow flames licking up the sides, spicy steam wafting over the top.

  “Why get involved in politics when he has the bar? He’s already got enough work just like this to keep him busy.”

  “Got that right.” Popeye added a behemoth bag of green nuts and gave another swirl with the paddle. “Got to cook them for a long time to kill the toxins, and you need a big old stove like this to get things hot enough. Archie Lee’s got this down to a science.”

  Popeye glanced at me through the haze, little droplets of sweat collecting on his unibrow. “Why do you care about Archie Lee anyway? You think he’s not smart enough to be with those knuckleheads down at city hall? He didn’t finish high school, but he’s plenty smart enough. He’ll be great in politics; he’s honest and works for the little guy, not like that rich snotty judge or a hotshot builder with all his mountains of money and . . .”

  His voice trailed off as a spark of recognition lit his black eyes. “Hey, I know you, you’re that judge’s daughter.” A sinister tone crept into Popeye’s voice. “What are you doing back here? What do you want from me?”

  “Nuts.” I made my blue plastic basket do a little dance in the air and added a sugar-sweet smile. The smile never worked with teachers when I forgot to do my homework, but I was hoping for a better outcome now.

  “You’re not here for nuts; you’re here for trouble. You’re thinking Archie Lee knocked off Seymour then framed your mamma. Archie Lee said that might happen. He figured that judge and her police friends would try and pin the murder on him. All you rich people stick together and screw us little guys, and you don’t care who gets hurt.”

  “You want little guy, I’ll show you little guy.” I slid off my shoe and held it up. “Are you wearing stuff held together with super glue? You call that rich? I’m not rich, and my mamma is not snooty.”

  Popeye stepped around the two-by-four holding up the stove and pointed his paddle to the door. “Get out while the getting’s good.” He backed me toward the hall, me hopping in that direction on one shoed foot. “Archie Lee and I are brothers, and don’t you forget it. Mind your own beeswax if you know what’s good for you and your mamma.”

  I stopped and stood my ground. “No one threatens my mamma.”

  “And who’s going to stop me? The scrawny likes of you?” Least he said I was scrawny.

  “Hey,” came Archie Lee’s voice echoing down the hall. “What’s going on back here?”

  “We got ourselves a pest problem,” Popeye said over his shoulder, giving me the chance to dart for the door, yank it open, and hobble out onto a rickety loading dock in the alley. Safe at last, except that Big Joey was crossing the street twenty feet away. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the Big Joey/Earlene situation. Heck, I had just escaped the Archie Lee/Popeye situation.

  Hopping again, I ducked behind the Dumpster till something with beady black eyes, twitching whiskers, and a long skinny tail scurried across my one and only foot on the ground. I slapped my hand over my mouth and tried not to scream. I really did try, but the scream jumped out anyway, and I leaped from behind the Dumpster. Big Joey looked up, frowned, and headed my way. This was all Chantilly’s fault, I realized. She said it was going to be one of those nights. She’d jinxed it.

  A lonely bulb lighting the back alley silhouetted Big Joey, proving beyond all doubt how he got the big attached to his name. Not that I was actually afraid of the guy, but I hated being on his bad side, and the Earlene state of affairs put me there big-time. On more than one occasion he had saved my butt; my reciprocity consisted mostly of comic relief and getting in the way.

  “I’m sorry,” I said at the same time Big Joey blurted, “Apologies, babe.” We stared at each other for a beat, both of us confused.

  “Why are you apologizing?” I said. “I’m the one who dropped Earlene on your doorstep.”

  Big Joey nodded toward the back entrance of the bar. “Hanging with Earlene presently. No bird but true and tight, and that counts.” Meaning Earlene wasn’t a hot young chickie, but she was someone you could count on and she was nice. My bilingual skills were improving.

  “How Mamma make out?” Big Joey asked. “My inside man buzzed to a new area. Not cool.”

  “You didn’t arrange for Mercedes?”

  “The ride?”

  “The woman. She looked out for Mamma and my auntie KiKi, and I thought you got her there somehow.”

  A flicker of recognition sparked Big Joey’s eyes, a slow smile on his lips. “That Me
rcedes.”

  “Meaning . . . ?”

  “It’s all good.” He eyed the shoe and basket, the grin expanding. “Troubles?”

  “A little misunderstanding.”

  “Keep it real, babe. Gotta bounce.” Big Joey took the backdoor into the bar, and I slid on my shoe and hung the basket from the doorknob. I headed for Mamma’s house. The campaign meeting had to be over by now, and I needed to check that she was okay with my own two eyes. Besides, I was dying to see her new do.

  A stiff breeze off the ocean made me button my denim jacket and turn up my collar. Thank the Lord Savannah never got beyond jacket cold. Snow was an occasional fluke, and icy conditions were found only in sweet tea and drinks on the veranda.

  I cut across Oglethorpe Square catching a glimpse of the Owens-Thomas House and wondering if Miss Margaret strolled the gardens tonight. She died back in ’51 of course, but that didn’t mean she didn’t take a stroll now and then. This was Savannah after all.

  I turned onto York as Walker Boone ambled down Mamma’s front sidewalk and got into the Chevy. Okay, what was with Mamma and Boone? There was a connection, but what and why? I did my stop-the-bus routine of standing in the street, waving, and looking ridiculous. Considering the night I’d had so far, the ridiculous part fit right in. Boone hit the brakes, and I took the passenger side.

  “You and Archie Lee have a nice visit?” he asked.

  “Don’t know if I’d jump right to nice. You do realize he has a victory banner right there in his bar? He knows liquor, and his brother knows about toxins from plants. Sounds like a murder suspect to me, and the Cemetery is sure in a party mood. I think he did it; he knocked off Scumbucket and framed Mamma.”

  “You really think Archie Lee would advertise winning if he killed off the competition?”

  “It’s genius. He looks innocent and simply the beneficiary of an unfortunate . . . or fortunate, depending on your point of view . . . occurrence that just happened to fall his way. He’s just one lucky guy, real lucky. I wonder where Mr. Lucky was when Seymour got knocked off.”

  “You going to ask him?”

  “Is there some reason you’re at Mamma’s?”

  Boone pulled the convertible to the curb. “There’s a new sheriff in town, and it’s going to muddy the waters. They’re bringing in a detective from Atlanta. Ross is second fiddle on this case. You’re mother’s well liked by the police here, and this new guy is to make sure there’re no cover-ups. It’s good in that when Gloria’s found innocent, the prosecuting attorney can’t cry foul play, because there’s an outside source.”

  “Putting a judge away could be a feather in Atlanta boy’s cap. Did you ever consider that?”

  “He’ll be fair.”

  I made a strangling sound of disbelief.

  “Keep in mind he won’t think twice about throwing your meddling butt behind bars for obstruction of justice.”

  I got out of the car. “And what if Atlanta boy catches you snooping around?”

  Boone gave me a fat-chance eye roll and motored off. The porch light was still on at Mamma’s, meaning she hadn’t gone to bed. I gave a little knock and went inside. Mamma met me in the front hall. Her hair was flipped out instead of tucked under, her bangs swept to the side and tucked behind her ear. I touched a strand. “You look mighty fetching, Judge Summerside.”

  Mamma smiled, then sobered. “What in all that’s holy happened to you? You’re all dirty. What have you been up to? More alleys?”

  “It’s all Chantilly’s fault. Do you know this detective from Atlanta?”

  “Bet you didn’t have dinner.” Mamma led the way to the kitchen, updated last year with marble counters and white cabinets. “I haven’t met the detective, but I’m sure he’ll be fair.”

  “That’s what Boone said.” I sat at the old yellow pine table where Mamma and I had shared meals since I was two and that had thankfully escaped the upgrade.

  Mamma smiled. “You got to trust the system, honey.”

  Mamma was all serene and peaceful as she took ham and roast beef from the fridge like when I was in grade school bellyaching about math class. She pulled out a loaf of sourdough bread and the mayo. “You really do mean it, don’t you? About trusting the system.”

  “What kind of judge would I be if I didn’t?” She added lettuce and cheese, and sat the sandwich in front of me, a blue linen napkin beside it. Sometimes you can go home again . . . at least for a little bit.

  “How did you know I was hungry?” I got up and washed my hands at the sink, and Mamma nodded at the pile of campaign posters.

  “I have spies. Your refrigerator’s empty, and your dog eats better than you do.”

  “Who do you think killed Seymour?” I asked, and reclaimed my seat. I snatched the sandwich and chowed down.

  “Hard to say.”

  “Who’s your attorney?” I mumbled around a mouthful of sublime comfort food, thankful for a break in the action. I plucked up a slice of Swiss that had escaped and plopped it into my mouth. How could something with holes taste so good?

  Mamma rewrapped the cold cuts and cheese, and cleaned up crumbs that weren’t there. “I’m working on that one.”

  “Any front runners?”

  “I’ll get somebody good. This could be dangerous. Seymour was a dangerous guy. I don’t want to involve just anyone in my problems.” Mamma folded then refolded the kitchen towel twice, and I put down my sandwich—so much for peace and calm. I wasn’t the only one with idiosyncrasies that gave me away. With Mamma it was making busy work when she didn’t want to give straight answers. The time she donated my favorite jeans to the Goodwill by mistake she arranged all the pens in the house by size and color.

  “Sweet Jesus in heaven.” A sickening feeling settled in my gut. “Boone’s your attorney.”

  “I don’t want you to be part of this, Reagan.” Mamma opened the cabinet door and turned all the cup handles to the right.

  “What happened to trusting the system? Boone sidesteps, ducks, twists, and dodges the system every chance he gets.”

  Mamma took the chair across from me. “Honey, sometimes the system needs a stick of dynamite up it’s behind to get it going in the right direction. Walker knows how to do that. I see what happens in a courtroom every day. It’s the best system out there to be sure, but it isn’t always pretty.”

  “My divorce wasn’t pretty, and Boone was the culprit.”

  Mamma gave me a sideways glance that suggested otherwise, like me signing that prenup was the otherwise. Okay, she won that point, but there were others. I poked myself in the chest. “Boone can help you and I can’t? What’s with that?”

  “If things fall apart, I don’t want to take you down with me. For better or worse Walker’s used to the rougher side of life. You’re a—”

  “Wuss?”

  “You’re my baby.” Mamma added a little sniff for good measure. “What would I do if anything happened to you? Promise me you’ll let Walker handle this.”

  Lord have mercy and sweet Jesus above, here we go again. My baby was right behind mighty proud. And there was even a sniff involved. When giving birth, at the hospitals there must be a list of guilt phrases given to new parents to bring their offspring in line. My baby was one of the top five on that list to be sure.

  Well, that was just fine and dandy, but kids had their list, too, and it was usually learned on that big yellow bus or the playground. Tell them what they want to hear and do as you darn well please . . . just don’t get caught, was tops on that particular list.

  “Boone’s good at what he does.” I ground my teeth so hard I think I chipped a molar. I crossed my fingers under the table. “I’ll stay out of his way.” Unless he gets in my way, then all bets are off, I added to myself.

  Mamma smiled then patted my cheek. “That’s my good girl, and if you don’t get involved, neither will KiKi. I’ll rest so much easier knowing both of you are safe.”

  I left Mamma’s feeling as if the wind had been knocked ri
ght out of my sails, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t row the boat. Not that I didn’t see her point. If I were the one in trouble, I wouldn’t want Mamma to put herself in danger for me. But she would . . . and so would I.

  I headed for home, cutting across Madison Square and rounding the statue of William Jasper. Why there wasn’t a statue of James Madison, Father of the Constitution and fourth prezy of the USA, in Madison Square was one of those little Savannah mysteries of life. A more current mystery was how to find who killed Scumbucket and do it on the down-low when I was more of an in-your-face, front-and-center kind of girl.

  • • •

  AS ALL DOG OWNERS KNOW, THERE IS NO SUCH THING as sleeping in. Dogs want out when they want out, and they don’t really care diddly if you tossed and turned all night, have the hangover from the Black Lagoon, or slept like the dead, which happened to be my present condition. BW used the suffocation approach to get me out of bed, sitting on my back till my lungs quit working and I woke up gasping for air. Worked like a charm.

  I crawled into jeans, ran a toothbrush around my mouth, and added a hoodie and socks against the seven A.M. nippiness. BW was already at the front door doing the can’t-wait doggie dance as I stumbled down the steps. I opened it and sat on the porch to make sure he didn’t chase something into the street. I waved to Uncle Putter as he backed down the drive, another day another dollar in the life of Savannah’s numero uno cardiologist.

  I looked over to his house. There were lights on in the kitchen, Auntie KiKi was sitting at the table laden with pastries, and my chocolate-icing-with-sprinkles doughnut alert was fully activated. She was chatting with a lady in a red floppy hat with a tan lacy shawl across her shoulders. Mercedes? Highlights and doughnuts were the only things I could think of that would get KiKi up and going at this hour.

  My stomach growled, the sprinkles beckoning. In a few hours the pearl-girls would again take over my house. I needed fortification to make it through the day, and I needed to thank Mercedes for taking care of Mamma and KiKi the way she did. I was no expert on prison protocol or the life and times of Martha Stewart, but there was more going on than Mercedes being there when needed and Beauty Salon 101.