Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery)

by Brown, Duffy

  “Psst. Over here,” she whispered behind me. At least I hoped it was Mercedes. If I turned around to some shadowy figure, I was out of here . . . if I could figure where out was.

  Mercedes waved to me from a doorway, and I hurried over and stopped dead. “What’s it like in there?”

  “Just finished up doing Tarsey Goodall, ninety-seven, hair like a goat. She’s on her way to the Serene Pastures room as we speak, viewing at five. I’m sitting here customer free for an hour. Lovell Graham comes in at eleven.”

  Mercedes yanked me into a room with a tile floor, a gurney on one side, a table with a ton of cosmetic and hair styling stuff, a sink, and two chairs. “I don’t want to get caught working on a customer,” Mercedes said. “The owners won’t like it. What’s the story that goes with the face and chicken hat? KiKi said you were in a desperate way.” Mercedes gave me a hard look. “I think it was an understatement.”

  “Hear about that explosion over on Blair?”

  “Guess you’re lucky to be here in the upright position.” She pulled off my hat and sucked in a breath. “Bet you always wanted to be Tinkerbell when you were a kid.”

  “How about Lara Croft in Tomb Raider.”

  “That there is Tinkerbell hair.” Mercedes froze. “Uh-oh, someone’s coming.”

  “I don’t hear a thing.”

  “You don’t hear anything around here; you just feel the vibes. Quick, get on that there gurney, don’t breathe, act dead.”

  Mercedes put her hand over my mouth, which was probably a good thing since I started to scream. “I need this job,” Mercedes whispered. She stuffed the chicken hat in my pocket, grabbed Old Yeller, flipped me onto the gurney like a sack of potatoes, and tossed a sheet over me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I STARED up at the sheet, trying to breathe as little as possible so as not to make it go up and down, a dead giveaway the person underneath wasn’t . . . dead.

  “Tarsey Goodall’s makeup is too green. We got new lighting in the Serene Pastures room, and it’s throwing everything off,” a man’s voice said. “Can you add some beige to tone it down a little?”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Mercedes said as if it was just another day at the office.

  “What’s this over here?” the man asked, his voice coming closer.

  “Sent here by mistake.” Mercedes was cool as a cucumber; I on the other hand had sweat prickles collecting on every indent of my body.

  “One of those independent contractors,” Mercedes went on. “They deliver to that new budget funeral home out by the mall, Heavenly Slumber. They must have gotten the two of us confused. I called the contractor, and they’re sending a transport to pick her up now. Should be here any minute.”

  I could feel the guy standing over me. My heart was pounding so hard it had to be shaking the whole room. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and prayed like mad. Don’t pull back the sheet! Don’t pull back the sheet! Don’t pull back the sheet!

  He pulled back the sheet!

  “Good God, what happened to this one?”

  “Hear about that explosion over on Blair? I think this was part of it.”

  Mercedes flipped the sheet back over me. “She’s really a mess. Don’t envy the person trying to pretty her up. Let me get my makeup kit, and you can show me what needs to be done to Tarsey.”

  I heard footsteps retreating, then nothing, counted three Mississippis and puffed out a lungful of air. I peeked from under the sheet into the empty room, then slid off the gurney. Old Yeller was by Mercedes’s jacket, looking as if it belonged to her . . . yeah, like Mercedes would own a pleather purse. I checked the hallway for whatever roamed around these parts and tiptoed off down the hall as fast as I could tiptoe. I took a turn then another and another ,and wound up at what had to be the Serene Pastures room because Mercedes was there with a guy. She saw me, tripped, and dropped a tube of something right in the casket.

  I backed down the hall, took the next one to the right, and wound up in an office area. A man sat behind the desk with Delray Valentine across from him. If either looked this way, I was dead meat. Did I really just think that? I ducked behind an antique cabinet.

  “A plant on the head,” Valley groused. “I thought you all did a better job than that, or we would have gone somewhere else.”

  “Eternal Slumber is extremely sorry for the situation,” desk guy said. “We are an exemplary funeral home in every way, but we have no control over the mentally unbalanced who come in to pay their respects. We gave you a discount on the bill and trust that will make amends to Mrs. Seymour. Personally I’m deeply sorry Mr. Seymour will not be our new alderman. He was a wonderful man, and now it looks as if that barkeep of all people will fill the position.”

  “You never know with politics what’s going to happen next,” Valley said, a lilt in his voice. “Things change when you least expect them to. Mark my words, Archie Lee isn’t a shoo-in by any stretch.”

  I heard papers shuffle and Valley say, “Now I have an appointment in Beaufort that I must keep, so I best be on my way.”

  I waited a few beats, giving Valley time to leave, then glanced around the edge of the cabinet to the man at the desk. He looked as dumbfounded as I felt after the conversation. Scummy was dead, Mamma accused of the murder, and Archie Lee the only soldier left standing. How could Archie Lee not be a shoo-in?

  Desk guy got up and went into anther room, and I crept past his office to the front door and out onto the porch. I sucked in deep breaths of formaldehyde-free air and soaked in the sunlight. I was so done with funeral homes! I didn’t care if it was KiKi or Mamma or whoever. The next dead friend or family member would have to get along in this place without me.

  I bought a bucket hat at a shop on Broughton. The checkout gal took one look at my hair and gave me a pity discount, the best thing that had happened to me all morning. I got a double scoop of Old Black Magic ice cream at Leopold’s to celebrate life and decided if Mamma asked about my appearance, I’d tell her I fell asleep under the sunlamp like I did when I was fourteen and that my curling iron malfunctioned and cooked my hair. She probably wouldn’t buy it, but it’s all I could come up with after a morning of sleuthing and playing dead.

  When I got to the Fox, the door was wide open, the nice sunny morning drifting inside. The Abbott sisters were holding court, talking about the explosion on Blair and how could such a terrible thing happen. They all stared at me when I came inside, exchanged wide-eyed looks, then fell instantly mute, everyone scurrying back to business. A hat can hide just so much.

  The Abbott sisters said Mamma was helping KiKi with dance classes, then Elsie and AnnieFritz hurried off to get rested up for the Tarsey Goodall viewing at five. With Tarsey being rather antiquated, there wouldn’t be many mourners, and the sisters felt morally obligated to put in extra weeping and wailing to make up for it.

  Business was good, and by noon I’d opened two new accounts and mentally paid my water bill. I had cleared out the dressing room and started to hang clothes back where they belonged when KiKi hurried in from the kitchen carrying a box and stopped right in the middle of the hall. “Where’s the new do?”

  I pulled her behind the checkout door and dropped my voice. “We got interrupted. You should know that if you die, I’m planting you under that pink rosebush in your garden. I’m swearing off funeral homes.”

  KiKi plopped the box on the door and grinned. “I got you a toaster, and we need to move Crazy Cazy to the top of the suspect list. The man’s a nut job.” KiKi sidled up close. “Seymour pushed him and pushed him for special favors or threatened to steer clients to get loans elsewhere. The girl I talked to at the savings and loan said Seymour demanded cases of wine and vacations and expensive dinners. Cazy was the loan officer. His job depended on getting loans, but it was costing him a ton, and he snapped.”

  “That’s just like what Rachelle Lerner said this morning. Seymour wanted kickbacks for throwing business her way, and she couldn’t make any money. She
refused, and he nearly ruined her business. I bet it was the same thing with Haber. Seymour wanted a discount on lumber, and Haber switched the lumber stamps and sold the cheap lumber for good. He had to or go belly-up with the building business already in the toilet.”

  KiKi cut her eyes out the window toward her house. “Your mamma’s finishing up with the Benders’ cha-cha lesson. I tell you there’s going to be some cha-cha smackdown at Sweet Marsh Country Club. Next we’re off to the kindergarten class for the Hokey Pokey.”

  KiKi darted for the back door, and a woman in faded brown slacks and a pilled sweater, her arms loaded with clothes, stumbled in the front door. “I want to sell these. They don’t fit me anymore, same for my . . . husband.”

  “Sure,” I said. “These are nice items, really nice. Some a little older and there’s spots on this skirt.”

  I’d seen the skirt before, cream with black stitching at the hemline, probably in the Nordstrom’s catalog. “It’s really expensive. I know a great dry cleaner. I can get the spots out and sell it. It’ll make some nice money for you.” And for me I added to myself. “Everyone can use some extra cash, right?”

  The woman blushed. “You can say that again. I got these out of the Goodwill bag that the lady I work for was going to give away of all things. She said I could have them,” the woman rushed on. “I got this here skirt with the stains right out of the trash, if you can believe it. Why would she throw a skirt like this away? I didn’t have time to get them cleaned. You can do it, right? It’s an expensive skirt. I can use a little extra money. That woman pays me next to nothing and always has me working overtime for free.”

  I handed the woman the account form and explained about the fifty-fifty split once the items sold. She nodded, signed my clothing log that stated I’d taken twenty-five items from her today, then hustled out the door. I put the skirt under the counter along with a few other things that needed dry cleaning.

  A customer in a taupe cashmere sweater hurried over to the checkout door, her hands shaking, eyes glazed. “Holy saints above, I do declare these are some mighty fine things that woman has to sell. I spied them right off when she came in the door. I’ve got an eye for retail.”

  Cashmere girl pawed through the pile on the counter and pulled out a Burberry coat. “How much for this? It’s worn. Look right there on the sleeve. Can you make me a good deal? I gotta have this here coat.”

  I quoted cashmere girl a price more than what I had made all morning. She forked over her credit card without batting an eye and skipped out the door. I studied the other items on the counter. All the woman’s clothes were expensive, like Saks expensive, older but still in great shape. The man’s tux was Italian, and it was new. I always had nice things at the Fox, but his was high-roller nice, put me in the black nice.

  “Is that an Hermes bag,” a consigner in tight jeans and swanky boots asked, running up to the counter. “How much? I gotta have this bag.”

  “That’s an Hermes belt. I want that belt,” a customer in a black-and-white flowered scarf said, holding up the belt, swanky boots yanking it right out of her hand.

  “Hey, that was mine.” Scarf gal gave swanky boots a hard shove and two ladies walking by caught the scent of designer mania and charged up the walk.

  “I want this dress,” claimed one of the street gals, holding up a mango Tory Burch sheath, a glazed look in her eyes.

  “Like heck, I saw it first,” second street gal snarled, nostrils flaring as she grabbed a handful of mango material. She swung her handbag full circle, knocking first street gal upside the head, sending her to the floor. First street gal grabbed second gal’s leg, tripping her, and another woman rushed up the sidewalk, grabbed the dress away from both of them, tossed a wad of money at me, and ran out as three more women ran in from God knows where. One snapped up a cream coat, the other snatching it out of her hands while lunging for a blue sequined evening gown at the bottom of the pile.

  “But I haven’t even priced anything yet,” I yelled into the din, not making one bit of difference, as women tore into the clothes. A tour bus drove by, five women jumping off before it stopped, heading full tilt for my door, hot on the scent of a big sale. A woman in a maroon suede jacket snatched up a Saint John’s navy skirt, another ripping it out of her hands running around the shop, three customers in hot pursuit. BW cowered behind me, and I backed to the wall.

  Sirens wailed and a cruiser screeched to a stop at the curb in front of the Fox. A uniformed officer and Mr. Suit hustled up the walk, Suit taking one look at me and grinning. “Hey, Ann Taylor, we meet again. What’s with the hat?”

  “Who you calling Ann Taylor?” Swanky boots asked, staggering to her feet, the obvious winner in the great dress struggle. She tossed her head, flipping straggly hair out of her face as she pitched her credit card on the checkout door. “That there is Reagan Summerside who owns this shop, and this dress is mine, and no one’s taking it from me. I don’t care who they are!” She had the stance of a Georgia Bulldog linebacker.

  Suit’s smile wobbled, the realization that he’d been had registering, cop face sliding into place and making me wish I were back under the sheet at the funeral home. Suit stepped over a tangle of shoppers on the floor to get to me. “What’s going on, and I’m not just talking clothes. What were you doing out at Delany Construction, and who the heck are you?”

  And twenty minutes later I was sitting at the Bull Street police station in a grungy blue interrogation room with bars at the windows. The last two times I’d frequented this establishment I had been hauled into the putrid green room with bars at the window. That I knew the layout of the police station underlined the present state of my life.

  This time the problem stemmed from me giving false information to a policeman. Seems that’s a big no-no in Savannah, and then there was the part about inciting a riot in my own shop. Lord knows how Suit came up with that one. The upside of all this was that I’d made a killing off the designer clothes fiasco; the downside was Walker Boone stood outside the grungy blue room this very minute talking to a cop and laughing his behind off.

  “How do you do it?” Boone asked as he came and took the seat across from me. “Dead and arrested all in one day?”

  “You talked to Mercedes.”

  “She feels bad about the hair.” The cuts and scrapes on Boone’s hands were red and angry along with another nasty cut on his face that I hadn’t noticed last night. “Least they let you keep the hat,” he said to me.

  “I told them I had lice and if I took off my hat, the little critters would jump off everywhere and infest the place.”

  Boone stretched his long legs out in front and settled back in the chair. He wore a blue button-down dress shirt not buttoned down and no tie. As far as I knew, Boone didn’t own a tie. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I said to him.

  “I enjoy knowing where the heck you are for a few minutes, and I’m willing to bet the rest of the city feels the same way.”

  “I think this thing with Suit is all about him getting even with me for not being Ann Taylor and me actually being Mamma’s daughter. Any woman knows that having a shoving match over a designer clothes sale is sport and that a riot around here is what happens at the Pirate House when they run out of she-crab soup.”

  “Why do you call him Suit?”

  “He wears one, and he never told me his name, not that I care.”

  Boone cocked one eyebrow. “You will care. Sit tight, Blondie. Try not to blow anything up while I’m gone.” Boone strode out of the room, and I suddenly felt really alone. What if I did get arrested, or what if something even worse happened to me? The way things were going both were definite possibilities and even heading toward certainty. If Mamma took over raising BW, she’d never let him have a hot dog or sleep with her in bed. She was much too healthy minded to tolerate preservatives and red food dye. Oh, she’d take BW because she felt obligated, and she’d tend to him as best she could, but she wouldn’t like it, and BW would not be h
appy.

  Boone strolled back in and sat down. “Well, it seems—”

  “Will you take Bruce Willis if something happens to me?” I blurted. “Mamma’s great and all, but she’s not really a dog person, and KiKi has the cat from hell, and I don’t want BW subjected to that. You got to let him sleep with you in your bed, not just by your bed on the cold floor, and you have to give him a hot dog every day, just one no matter how much he whines, and let him chase rabbits in the morning. It’s a game; he just chases. Will you take him?” I felt a tear slide down my cheek and splat onto the scarred metal table, but I didn’t care. I needed to straighten things out.

  “And don’t sell Cherry House to just anyone,” I added after a good sniff. “If you let Hollis have it, I swear I’ll haunt you forever and put a pox on your sex life.” I had no idea where the last part came from, but considering I was talking to the hound of Savannah, I felt it carried weight. Another tear smacked the table.

  Boone sat perfectly still, not moving a muscle. He leaned across the table, his jaw set, and eyes serious. “You’ve had a bad day is all and—”

  “Promise me. Cross your heart and pinky swear.” I held up my right pinky. “Do it.”

  Boone traced a cross over his heart and took my pinky with his. “I promise.”

  “And you won’t forget.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  I swiped the backs of my hands across my teary face and runny nose, sat up straight, and tried to gain some composure after making arrangements for my untimely demise. “Okay, we got that out of the way. What were you going to say when you came in?”

  “That you’re a free woman. Mr. Suit never identified himself to you or stated he was a detective, so the Ann Taylor thing is off the table because he’s the one who asked you your name. As for the riot over at the Fox, no one saw anything; that’s the story your customers are dishing out, and they are sticking to it, though you should know there’s a list of phone numbers taped to the top of your Godiva candy box if clothes like that come in again.”