by Brown, Duffy
It was one of those situations where I could lie and soft-pedal what was going on, but with four badass dudes snapping at my heels, one could easily go after KiKi, and she needed to be prepared.
“The explosion at the house last night wasn’t an accident,” I told KiKi. “I think Butler Haber was trying to cover up that bad wood situation Pillsbury mentioned when he was here at the Fox. I think maybe Haber could have killed Seymour because he was using the same stuff, didn’t know it, then threatened to expose Haber. The Blair house was further proof of what was going on, so Haber blew it up.”
KiKi flopped back in her chair. “Well, I do declare. Butler Haber is a no-good rotten swindler. Who would have thought? No wonder Marigold was having a conniption and hurrying off to see Odilia. I guess that means we add Butler to our I-polished-off-Seymour list along with that Dozer person.”
I took KiKi’s hands in mine. “These are mean guys. You got to be careful, promise me. Lock your doors. Maybe you should get one of those alarm systems in your house.”
“Heavenly days. I’d never remember those code numbers, and I’d wind up setting the alarm off and driving the neighbors crazy with the racket. Besides, I have Putter’s nine iron right behind the back door, and Putter Vanderpool does maintain a right proper Southern home if you get my meaning.”
Translation: Uncle Putter had enough firepower stashed away to arm a small country, and his wife knew how to use it.
“You know,” KiKi said. “You got all these bad guys wanting to kill Seymour, but we never did figure out why Rachelle Lerner had it in for the man. Big bad guys and poison doesn’t feel right to me. We know Rachelle didn’t like Gloria because she sent darling sonny boy up the river, but what did Seymour ever do to her? Maybe we should have a chat and find out.”
“And pick up some sticky buns.”
KiKi’s eyes twinkled. “I’m hungry as a working mule. It’s still early, and with a little luck those sticky buns will be right out of the oven and just waiting for us. It’s Monday; we could stroll into Cuisine by Rachelle for coffee before you open the Fox.” KiKi gave me the critical auntie stare. “But we can’t go anywhere with you looking the way you do.”
“The missing eyebrows and clothes are a bit much, huh?”
“And your hair.”
“Hair? This is the first I’m hearing about hair.”
“I figured there’s just so much unpleasantness a body can deal with at one time, and the no-eyebrows thing sort of took precedence. Bet you’ll look right smart with one of those pixie cuts. Some aloe on your face might be in order, too.”
I touched what used to be a curl by my cheek, realizing it felt a little crispy. KiKi gently peeled a flake of skin from my nose. “Think of it as having a sunburn in November.”
I stifled a sob.
“If you use a bottle or two of conditioner, I just bet it’ll flatten out that kink. You might have to cut off a few burnt ends here and there, but short hair is in, right? Tell you what. I’ll take my little Precious to the vet and stop back for you in half an hour. I just ordered him a satin bed off Amazon this morning and some toys. I figure since I’m having his jets cooled, this will make up for it.”
Personally, I didn’t think there was a male in all of Christendom who thought a satin bed and toys made up for having the family jewels deleted. At least my hair would grow back.
KiKi left, and I headed upstairs. I sucked in a deep breath, clenched my fists, glanced in the mirror, and screamed.
Twenty minutes later I ran out to the Beemer idling at the curb and took shotgun. “How’s the cat?” I asked KiKi.
“His meow will be two octaves higher from here on out, but he’ll be better off for it. Nice hat. Looks like you fell asleep in the sun and you got a really ticked-off chicken sitting on your head.”
“It’s an Angry Birds hat. I took it in on consignment two days ago, it’s all I had, and it looks a million times better than what’s underneath. None of the stores are open yet, but I’ll get something else later on. Maybe one of those bucket hats would work.” My voice cracked, another crying jag threatening. I pointed out the windshield. “Just drive.”
KiKi put the Beemer in gear, and we motored off toward Cuisine by Rachelle, located near City Market, the hub of Savannah tourist action.
“I know you’re in distress,” KiKi said to me, “and I hate to add to it, but have you given any thought to what you’re going to tell your mamma?”
“Mamma,” I said on a whisper, my stomach cramping. That’s what happens when you are absolutely positive things can’t get worse. They do!
“She’ll know about the explosion,” KiKi continued. “One look at you and she’ll put it all together. She’ll want to know what’s going on and have a fit that you’re poking around and nearly getting blown up.”
KiKi stopped for a light and tuned to me. I gave her a sly grin and wiggled my brows . . . well, what would have been my brows if I had any. KiKi stared back for a beat then held up her hands as if warding off a charging bull. “No way. Uh-uh. You wouldn’t do that to your favorite little ol’ auntie.”
“You’re not old, and you’re my only auntie, and it’s your turn. You take Mamma this week. Keep her busy, have her help you with dance lessons.”
“Holy mother of God!” KiKi’s eyes bugged. She put her hands back on the wheel, and we moved through the light. “You think your displays are bad; Gloria Summerside can’t dance for beans. Not one lick of rhythm in her whole body. Miracle the woman can walk upright.”
“You can have her help out with the teens, offer some free introductory lessons at the senior centers.”
“Like those people don’t have enough afflictions in their lives already.”
“It’s your turn.”
KiKi turned onto Saint Julian, her eyes steady, lips pressed together. “Fine. You get till Friday, and then I’m sending her back to the Prissy Fox. I can set up a few things at the kindergarten classes and day cares. Those little kids don’t have so far to fall to the ground. She can teach the chicken dance and the Hokey Pokey.”
“I really think you should let her have a crack at the teen class. Bet Linton Parish would simply love dancing with a judge.”
“Linton give you a hard time?”
“Linton Paris is a letch with pimples.”
City Market was just gearing up for business at nine A.M. with Lolly’s Trolley and other tour trolleys lining up to collect early bird tourists and propel them around our fair city. The carriage drivers hitched up horses, smoke curled into the air from the stone ovens over at Vinnie Van Go-Go’s, and Cazy Ledbetter hustled off the trolley and booked it hard down the sidewalk right past us.
“Did you see that?” I asked KiKi as she took a left onto Barnard. “It was Cazy Ledbetter dressed in a karate outfit, and he had on a black belt.”
“Guess he needs something to hold up his pants so they don’t slide off his bony behind.”
“Not that kind of black belt, but the one as in hi-yah tick me off and you die. Pull over.”
KiKi tucked into the curb. “Cazy? Sounds more like Chuck Norris.”
“I saw Lolly’s Trolley back at City Market. Lolly was driving, and Cazy got off. I thought Cazy Ledbetter was this mild-mannered, harmless guy who wouldn’t hurt a flea, but then we had this discussion about Seymour, and he went a little ballistic and nearly drove his trolley right into a pole. I think there’s another side of Cazy, the crazy-Cazy side.”
“You really think Cazy Ledbetter has it in him to knock off Seymour? It’s a mighty big stretch from whacking boards and doing some fancy kicks to out-and-out murder.”
“He told me how Lolly followed Mamma and the bottle of honey bourbon to Seymour’s. He knew what was going on, and he really hated Seymour. We should follow him. Maybe he just wears the outfit to feel important.” I chewed my bottom lip. “I suppose we could just ask Cazy where he was when Scummy was murdered.”
That got me the evil eye stare. “These here people have
been friends of your mamma’s for as long as we’ve all been on this earth. You can’t just out and out accuse them of murder, and if your mamma found out we did such a thing, she’d blow a gasket. We’ll just snoop around and see where it takes us. Now let’s get a move on.”
KiKi joined me on the sidewalk, and I said, “We need to blend in so Cazy doesn’t see us following. If he is the killer, we don’t need him thinking we’re on to him.”
“Unmannerly?”
“Unhealthy.”
KiKi’s eyes rolled up. “That blend-in part’s gonna be a tough one with a red chicken on your head.” Before I could stop her, KiKi whipped off the hat, her eyes rounding to half the size of her face. She gulped and pulled the hat back in place. “Right, we’ll blend in. We can do this.” She took my hand and pulled me down Jefferson.
“There,” KiKi whispered, nodding up ahead to a dingy gray clapboard storefront with a Ken’s Karate Klub sign in the window and a picture of two dudes kicking at each other. “That’s got to be it, and I got us a plan.”
“It involves me, doesn’t it? You’ve got that look. I’m the guinea pig.”
“I got a good use for that there hair of yours. The Lord provides.” Before I could ask about the Lord providing what, KiKi ducked into the Klub, a bunch of Japanese sounding words echoing out from a back room.
“She needs lessons,” KiKi said to a guy behind the counter as she ripped the hat right off my head. “Look what somebody did to her. She needs to learn how to kick butt so this doesn’t happen again.”
“Holy crap, who did this to you?” The guy was young, dressed in a white karate outfit tied in front with an orange belt of thick material.
“She needs to be one of those black belt people,” KiKi explained.
Orange belt guy gave a patronizing smile. “That takes years and years of practice.”
“Can a black belt really whip someone’s behind if they have a mind to?” KiKi asked.
“Karate is all about discipline and respect and honor.”
“So if someone dishonors and disrespects you, then what?” KiKi asked.
“Then you can whip his butt.” Orange Belt pointed to a room off the side, and I caught sight of Cazy looking mean and determined and kicking the beejeebers out of some imaginary guy in front of him.
“You need to be real fit,” Orange Belt said. He pointed to a shelf of white plastic bottles off to the side. “We recommend taking vitamins to keep your body strong and healthy. Karate is very demanding if you do it right. We set the dosage. Take too many, and you’ll get sick as a dog. You learn a lot of things when you take karate. The good stuff to put in your body and the bad stuff to stay away from.”
I picked up a book titled When Enough Is Too Much with a picture of a bunch of pills on the cover. I cut my eyes to Cazy to make sure he hadn’t spotted KiKi or me. If he was the killer, I didn’t need Mr. Black Belt visiting me in the middle of the night like Dozer did, thank you very much.
“When would you like to start?” Orange Belt shoved a clipboard with papers attached in my direction and studied my hair. “If someone did that to me, I’d have it in for them big-time.”
“We’ll think about it,” KiKi said, both of us inching back toward the door as Cazy headed into the hallway. “Maybe we’ll just get a dog.”
I followed KiKi outside, and we hurried down the sidewalk. We ducked into an alley in case Cazy caught a glimpse of us and wanted to check things out. “See?” KiKi said. “That hair of yours is a good thing. Got us some great information, and from what I can tell Cazy is not the mild-mannered trolley driver all the time. He’s like Clark Kent without the phone booth. He puts on another outfit and changes into someone else.”
“You think he could have killed Seymour?”
“He’s on medication for his nerves, and he knows something about pills with being in karate for years. We know he was plenty ticked off at Seymour for treating him badly for a long time. Now that I think about it, you were right in wanting me to open that account at the savings and loan. Just because somebody is into karate and taking vitamins doesn’t mean they’re into murder. We need another opinion, and the people at the savings and loan saw what happened and how Cazy reacted. I can go this morning.”
I pulled off my hat. “Remember me, the scarecrow? Mamma can’t see me like this. You have to take her today.”
“We’ll get the Abbott sisters to mind the Fox with Gloria, and you can go to the beauty parlor and get your hair done.”
“How am I going to explain this at a beauty parlor?” I yanked at a chunk of hair.
KiKi pulled out her iPhone. “Mercedes is probably at Eternal Slumber right this minute and can work you in and give you a good deal.”
“Wait a minute. You want me to go to a funeral home to have my hair done?”
“Mercedes is used to people in car wrecks and fires and probably even explosions. You’re right up her alley.”
“I feel so much better now.”
“Think of it this way, you won’t be scaring anyone to death ’cause the deed’s already been done.” KiKi punched in some numbers. “I’ll call Mercedes and get the Abbott sisters on over to the Fox. This will work out fine and dandy.”
“Tell the sisters the spare key’s under the flower pot in the back.”
“Honey, everybody knows the spare key’s under the flower pot.”
Rachelle’s place was two blocks down the other way on Jefferson with Cuisine by Rachelle stenciled in pumpkin orange script across the front window along with a display of Thanksgiving brunch and all the trimmings. Anyone could put on a nice spread these days and not lift a finger except to punch in Cuisine by Rachelle’s phone number.
“Why hi there. Nice seeing you again,” Rachelle greeted KiKi and I when we walked in the door to the aroma of things baking and simmering. Rachelle had on a blue apron and matching cap perched in a nest of salt-and-pepper hair. The shop had a low counter for checking out and a glass case with an array of quiches, pies, rolls, and sticky buns. Beat shelves of white plastic vitamin bottles all to heck. Three tables occupied the narrow space up front, the real action of catering and takeout in the back.
Rachelle eyed my head. “My nephew has a hat like that; it matches his bicycle.”
“My friend, Chantilly, said you have great sticky buns,” KiKi said, her eyes glued to the glass case. “Lord be praised, you put pecans in them.” A little drop of drool pooled at the corner of KiKi’s mouth.
“You know Chantilly?” Rachelle beamed. “She’s a real jewel, I tell you. Never seen anyone take to cooking like that girl has. She’s making a delivery right now, and that there boyfriend of hers is something else.”
KiKi and I exchanged looks, both of us wondering if this was a good something else or a bad something else. With Pillsbury it could go either way. “You know,” I said, “Pillsbury might look a little rough, but he’s—”
“Sent by the Lord above to save me!” Rachelle belted out in song like a member of the choir and clasping her hands to her bosom. “He has business meetings on Wednesday mornings and Friday lunches, and he wants me and Chantilly to cater them both. Pillsbury says he needs the tax write-off. Now that’s the kind of businessman I need in my life. That whoreson bastard Seymour wanted a 40 percent discount on everything. All I could do for that kind of money was serve up bologna and cheese and pass it off as some kind of delicacy. People know better, and it would have ruined my reputation. I told that sorry excuse for a man no way, and he went and spread the word my food was terrible and I cheated him, and I lost a lot of business. I even brought him and his campaign workers sticky buns and quiche as a peace offering, but the man just laughed at me and told me to get lost.”
Rachelle’s face reddened, and she pounded her fist on the counter, KiKi and I jumping about a foot off the floor. “If anyone deserves to rot in hell for all eternity, it’s Kip Seymour.”
Rachelle readjusted her hat, smoothed her apron, her face morphing back into a big custom
er-friendly smile. “Now what can I get for you ladies today?”
Ten minutes later KiKi and I sat in the Beemer, a bag of sticky buns between us. “You know,” I said, thinking about the buns. “The day Scummy bit the dust, or more accurately, the carpet, sticky buns were at his headquarters. I ate one. They were amazing. Rachelle must have been there. If she saw the bourbon bottle and heard the fight with Mamma, spiking the bottle would have been easy. She’d get her revenge on Mamma, and Scummy would be out of her life. We should talk to Delray Valentine and see if he remembers seeing Rachelle.”
KiKi glanced down at the white pastry bag emitting smells from heaven and beyond. “Do you think Rachelle recognized you as Gloria’s daughter?”
“With this hat and face?”
KiKi sighed, made a sad whiny sound, sniffed, then powered down the window and tossed the delicious bag into a garbage can at the curb. “Just in case.”
• • •
THE ETERNAL SLUMBER WAS WHITE CLAPBOARD with black shutters and had a widow’s-walk on the roof that seemed more than appropriate. Back in the day, when married to Hollis and with a little money to spare—or at least thinking I did—I went to Jan at the Cutting Crew to get my hair done. Jan was fantastic. Mercedes was fantastic too and free, in honor of the great escape at Dozers. The problem with Mercedes was that a die job had a whole new meaning.
I took the driveway to the right wondering if the hats and wigs from Cher-on-the-run that I had stashed in the bushes were still there. A green Flora’s Flowers van pulled up to the big double doors under the portico. Two guys hauled in a spray of really pretty yellow roses, a wreath on a stand, and a palm probably to replace the one KiKi dumped on Scummy.
KiKi said to enter through the red door, so I continued on to what looked like the service entrance. “Mercedes?” I whispered when I closed the heavy door behind me, the silence creepy as all get out. I followed the thick, padded gray carpet to another hall, then another, the only sound my heart thumping in my head. I should have swiped one of the sticky buns KiKi bought and dropped crumbs. “Mercedes?”
