by Brown, Duffy
“I do believe this here is Honey Seymour’s scarf that goes to one of her suits that I’ve done up for her. See?” Mary Kay pointed to the edges. “That ruffled tan piping is the reason I can tell. She’s got a suit just like that. How did you get it?”
“Found it in a parking lot,” I chimed in, then changed the subject away from any more questions to the obvious topic of the day. “Guess you heard about the fire.”
“Heard you two were out there at the lumberyard when it happened,” Mary Kay said around a mouthful of pineapple pastry. “Lordy, what a mess. Least poor old Butler was dead before he got turned into a crispy critter. Guess that’s something to be thankful for.”
“How did you know about Butler?” I asked, the guilt of not finding him riding me hard.
“Detective Ross comes in here right early almost every day to get her suits cleaned. Seems they always have a smear of glaze or powdered sugar. I keep a doughnut or two on hand, kind of gets her in a chatty mood, and I find out what’s what around here. She said Butler was whacked in the back of the head. Best the police can tell he was dragged into the warehouse from someplace else and stashed behind a pile of lumber. If you all hadn’t come along and dialed up 911, the whole place would have been totaled.”
Mary Kay started in on the cherry Danish and glanced down at the white cotton bag by my feet. “Since you’re not dropping off laundry and you’ve got that bag, I’m willing to bet you’re heading off to Odilia’s. I have to say that woman scares the daylights right out of me.”
“Think it would help if I brought her a Danish?” I asked.
“I think it would help if you two dropped that bag on her porch and ran like the devil himself is after you, ’cause he just might be.”
KiKi and I left the Soap Box all casual like then stopped at the corner. “Well I’ll be,” KiKi whispered. “The scarf is you-know-who’s. She and her partner in crime did the deed sure as I’m standing here. We saw them, there was an argument, then we left, and they came back. Scummy was in her way and he’s worm food, and now Butler. It fits together like a big old puzzle.”
“But we have no real proof we can take to Ross,” I said. “She needs something concrete. She knows we don’t have any use for Honey; we could have found the scarf anywhere.” I held up the white bag. “Let’s get rid of this thing. Maybe our luck will change if it’s out of our lives. It sure didn’t do Marigold any good.”
To walk off the Danish we left the Beemer parked at the Soap Box and cut across Oglethorpe. Odilia’s house had no street number; it didn’t need it. It was tucked in an alleyway behind the Sorrel Weed House, one of the most haunted places in Savannah, and just walking by the place gave me the willies. The place was constantly on the market, people thinking ghosts don’t exist then finding out otherwise real quick.
Odilia’s house was a small white frame with quaint blue shutters and porch, a wild variety of plants in the compact front yard, and various fruits and vegetables on the porch.
The fruits and veggies weren’t because Odilia had good eating habits but were offerings to whatever from whomever. As a kid, I thought if you touched an offering, you’d shrivel up and die; as an adult, I was absolutely sure that would happen.
We stepped over the candy and pennies there for prosperity and the apples for good health and healing. I knocked, then knocked again. Shuffling came from inside, and Odilia opened the door. She was wearing a white floral dress, and her head was wrapped in a yellow turban. “You lent this to Marigold,” KiKi said, a little shake in her voice. “And we’re returning it. Her husband was—”
“Murdered,” Odilia said in a gruff tone, her piercing black eyes watching us close. “Bad to you and bad to me, bad comes back in groups of three.”
“Amen,” I said out of habit, getting a shin kick from KiKi.
Odilia started to close the door then stopped. “Did Marigold get the insurance policy?”
KiKi and I exchanged glances.
“I told her she’d need it.” Odilia slammed the door, end of discussion.
KiKi stepped off the porch, and I followed. Without saying a word we walked back to Madison Square, sat on a bench, and took a deep breath. “Visiting Odilia isn’t all colored stones and eggplant. There’s financial planning involved, and if followed, it pays off really well.”
“Especially if you have a hand in making it pay off?”
“You really think Marigold would do that?” KiKi asked, both of us having a hard time getting our minds around the possibility.
“Marigold sure wasn’t with us last night, and the woman’s mad and desperate. She knows the lumberyard well enough. We should go talk to her.”
“What are we going to say?” KiKi wanted to know. “Here’s a fruit basket, sorry for your loss, and did you knock off your husband for financial gain?”
I did the double-eyebrow arch, thankful I actually did sort of have eyebrows. “Think about it, she could have knocked off Scummy, too; he was driving Butler nuts. Marigold gave Mamma the bottle of honey bourbon, and then she left for her bridge club soon after Mamma left to talk to Scummy. Scummy was bleeding Butler dry; maybe Marigold had had enough of being broke and got rid of them both.”
“And bought insurance thanks to Odilia, the icing on the cake. Parker’s deli is a few blocks over. Let’s get a fruit basket. That’s perfect condolence food and will get us into Marigold’s.”
“Kind of sneaky.”
“These are sneaky times.”
Fifteen minutes later KiKi and I stood on the porch of the Philbrick-Eastman House. I had the fruit basket, and KiKi raised the pineapple doorknocker to Marigold’s not so humble abode that needed a sprucing up bad. “I don’t know about this,” I said to KiKi. “Mamma’s going to kill us for barging in on Marigold this way; she’s got to be devastated.”
“Your Mamma can’t kill us in someone else’s house. It’s not mannerly. Your mamma’s big on mannerly.”
Mamma yanked open the door on the second knock, took one look, and yanked KiKi inside then came back for me. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I don’t know what to do. Listen. Do you hear that?”
“Crying?” KiKi asked as I handed over the fruit basket. “Poor Marigold. Maybe a pear will help or a kumquat. Maybe we should call the doctor and get her a sedative.”
Mamma poked herself in the chest. “I’m the one who needs a sedative. What you’re hearing is laughter. Marigold’s been online all morning shopping. In two days this place is going to look like Macy’s threw up, and Marigold’s supposed to be in mourning. This is not mourning; this is the Home Shopping Network on steroids. Where’s the decorum, the manners? What will people think?”
“Insurance?” KiKi asked
Mamma gasped. “How did you know? Marigold went and took out a huge policy on Butler just last week. It’s like hitting the jackpot.”
“Unless you’re Butler,” KiKi added, and we all made the sign of the cross.
“Last night Marigold spent the whole evening having drinks and God knows what else with the new owner of the Southern Peach Hotel down by the river. They hit it off, she swears she’s in love, and then she wakes up this morning to no husband and boatloads of money.”
Okay, where was Odilia when I was getting my divorce? Where was my rich guy and hotel owner? I didn’t need an attorney; I needed Odilia. “Marigold was with this guy all night?”
“Half the city saw them making goo-goo eyes at each other at the Southern Peach bar till the sun came up. Shameful if you ask me.”
“I’m not asking you,” Marigold’s voice drifted down from upstairs. “I’m rich. I’m rich, rich, rich!”
Mamma insisted on staying on, and even though it was just nine, KiKi fixed Mamma a double Bloody Mary with a lot more bloody than Mary. I turned the TV to reruns of I Love Lucy, then KiKi and I hoofed it back to the Soap Box to retrieve the Beemer. KiKi fired up the engine, and we turned onto Bull then Charlton Street, passing by Money-Honey’s house.
“Stop,” I sa
id to KiKi on a whim. “I think we need to take a look around Money-Honey’s house.”
KiKi eased the Beemer to the curb. “Why sure, let’s just mosey on up to the front door and say we’ve stopped in for a spot of tea, what the heck were you doing at the Haber lumberyard, and by the way isn’t this your scarf we found there?”
“Money-Honey’s not home. Her car’s always parked in the drive ’cause it’s too big for the carriage house. Honey’s still our best suspect for polishing off Seymour outside of Dozer. The maid is probably in. I’ll tell her I’m with Cuisine by Rachelle who did the catering the other night for Honey’s campaign bash, and we forgot a tray and could we look around for it.”
“You think she’ll buy it?”
“It’s a maid; she doesn’t care. I’ll take my time and see if I can get upstairs to look for the suit that matches our scarf. Then we can take the information to Ross.”
“Seems kind of flimsy.”
“Flimsy is all we’ve got right now, and it’s better than nothing. The worst thing that can happen is she recognizes me from the Fox then slams the door in my face.” Before KiKi could think of another excuse or I lost my nerve, I crossed the street to the William Battersby House. I raised the pineapple knocker and out of the corner of my eye spied KiKi heading toward the carriage house. She looked back at me and grinned; I returned the look, shaking my head violently No!
“What?” Money-Honey barked when she opened the door.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” popped right of my big mouth.
“I live here. Go away.”
So much for getting upstairs, but the good news was Money-Honey didn’t recognize me with short brown hair and fake brows. “I wanted to tell you . . .” I said to Money-Honey. “Actually I wanted to tell your maid because I know how busy you are that you are an amazing candidate, never seen anyone quite like you on the podium, and with you being an alderman, I’m absolutely sure Savannah will never be quite the same.”
“Why thank you kindly. What did you say your name was?”
“Ann Taylor”
“Ann Taylor, you are so sweet. Now I really must go. My driver will be here any moment.”
“Going on a trip? How nice for you.”
“I have an election to win, dear. I’m not going anywhere till this thing is in the bag. Some idiot backed into my car and busted the taillight out of all things. It’s in the shop. Now I really must go.”
Money-Honey closed the door, and I crept around back by the carriage house, looking for Savannah’s version of Nancy Drew. I ducked behind an azalea bush and a line of oleander bushes and a bed of withering impatiens, begonias, and foxgloves all in neat rows except for one open empty space. An obvious empty space because there was a hole in the ground. I stopped dead, staring at the dirt. Someone had been digging in the garden, digging foxglove plants. Not digging with a big shovel but a small hand shovel at just one plant.
“Pssst,” sounded from the Beemer, KiKi already there making hand gestures for me to get a move on, and she was right. If Money-Honey’s ride came along and she came out and saw me poking around her house, there’d be another encounter with the cops. I backed out of the garden and took shotgun in the Batmobile.
“What happened to Honey not being home?” KiKi fired up the engine, and we continued on down Charlton.
“Her car’s in the shop. Things didn’t exactly go as I planned. Did you find anything?”
“There were gas cans in the carriage house, but everyone has gas cans with lawn equipment. The maintenance people probably keep it on hand. Honey, and my guess is Valley too, are guilty as a priest in a whorehouse, and we both know it, and we can’t prove a darn thing.”
It was after ten when I opened the Fox, two frustrated customers waiting on the porch. I offered the 20-percent-discount apology, and all was well, but I hated starting off the workday late.
I wrote up a sale for a blue wool skirt and two pairs of jeans as a cruiser pulled to the curb, Detective Ross rolling up the sidewalk. How could anyone get so big in one week? I sucked in my gut and swore to start jogging . . . tomorrow. Yes, definitely maybe tomorrow.
“I need some blue suits and maybe a brown one,” Ross said, taking a look around the Fox, powdered sugar trailing down her front. “That dry cleaner went and shrank all my clothes, do you believe.”
“These things happen.” I came around the checkout door and led Ross over to suits.
“You know,” she said, picking up a white blouse that would hide the powdered sugar dribbles quite nicely, “I’d like to talk to you about the fire out there at the lumberyard. They got me covering fender benders now, me a full-fledged detective doing uniform cop duties.”
Ross sniffed and dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. “I used to be on the front-burner homicide cases and now this. That detective from Atlanta has the whole police department convinced I’m no good, but if I can come up with some new evidence on this case, I can get my credibility back. You got any leads?”
I could tell her about Honey and Valley being at the lumberyard and about the scarf, but then Ross might go charging after Honey, and without real proof she’d look worse than ever. “I just saw what the firemen saw,” I said to Ross. “Did they find anything?”
“The theory is Butler came out from his office, got whacked, then was dragged into the warehouse. Seems Butler was selling bad wood at inflated prices, and someone got ticked off about it. All they have are pieces of a broken taillight they found up by the office. It’s new, not been rained on or driven over. Do you know how many busted taillights there are in this city?”
“Taillight? Really?”
“The thing on the back of a car. Are you okay? You look kind of funny?”
“How would you like to take a little ride with me? I’ll buy you a doughnut.”
“It is after ten, and my blood sugar is dropping. It might be a right fine idea to get a doughnut.”
Chapter Twenty-one
I GRABBED Old Yeller from behind the checkout door, ran to KiKi’s and told her and Bernard to mind the Fox, then jumped in the cruiser, wedging myself into the mound of empty pastry bags.
“Cakery Bakery here we come,” Ross said, gunning the engine.
“We have to make a stop first. It has to do with a fender bender.”
I got a pouting lower lip.
“It’s about that taillight that’s busted out at the lumberyard. We might . . . maybe . . . God willing and a little bit of luck . . . have the match. Honey Seymour’s car has a busted taillight, and she was at the lumberyard last night. I even have her scarf, and it’s a perfect match for one of her expensive suits hanging right there in her closet. Mary Kay over at the Soap Box confirmed it.”
I told Ross about the spots on the skirt and the scattered pills and the empty pill bottle and poodle girl and the foxglove in Honey’s garden and about the wood and the Butler/Seymour connection.
“Delray Valentine wants this election as much as Honey does,” I added. “They both have motive and last night before the fire I was at the lumberyard doing an Odilia thing for a friend.” Only in Savannah could you make that statement to a cop and not wind up in the slammer. “I saw Honey Seymour and Delray drive up in the Lexus. They had words, and Butler flattened Delray. The Lexus was fine then; now the Lexus is at the dealer.”
“Maybe for an oil change?”
“It’s the taillight. Honey told me herself this morning that it was broken. Said someone backed into her. I don’t think so; I think she backed into something out at the lumberyard, and the taillight pieces the police have are a match for Honey’s car.”
Ross slowly sat up straight, dusted off her doughnut crumbs, eyes clear, and a little snarl in her voice when she said to me, “It’s all circumstantial. Honey could have broken the taillight the first time she was out at the lumberyard.”
God help us all, for better or worse, Ross was back. “She didn’t. I saw the Lexus, and it was fine when it drove off, and there was someone e
lse at the lumberyard besides me. My guess, he’s an employee because he and Butler wore the same shirt. He can tell you the same thing. He owns an old red Ford pickup. It shouldn’t be hard to find him, and he’ll tell you what I just did.”
“Maybe she broke the taillight here in town?”
“And maybe she didn’t, but we need that busted taillight. It’s concrete evidence and worth a shot. It puts Honey Seymour and probably Delray at the scene of the crime. They had the motive. They want to save the reputation of Seymour Construction and win the election. My guess is Honey would throw the municipal insurance policies Delray’s way, making him a rich man.”
“What about Kip Seymour? You think they killed him? Why?”
“He was sleeping with the volunteers, and it was about to go public, ruining his chances at getting elected. Honey and Delray were desperate. This all lends to reasonable doubt if Mamma goes to trial. Planting the honey bourbon bottle with Mamma’s fingerprints in my garbage can would not be hard.”
Ross floored the cruiser, hit the sirens, and tore down Gwinnett. Cars pulled to the curb, traffic parting like the Red Sea for Moses as we raced through the city, the Lexus dealership suddenly looming just ahead in a matter of minutes. Ross squealed to a stop in front of the double garage doors marked Service.
Ross jumped out, nearly giving herself a hernia, and flashed her badge. “You have a Lexus here getting a taillight repaired. I need to see it and the light you repaired right now.”
“You got a warrant?” a big burly mechanic, oil stains on his pants and shirt, said, swaggering his way toward Ross.
“Don’t need one if you invite me in, which I’m sure you’ll do since I’m doubting you got a permit for that fence out front or that new garage you just added on, and I would just hate to have building inspectors crawling all over this place.”
“We just fixed the light,” swagger guy growled, hands on hips.
“Got the old one you took out?” Ross growled back, hands on hips.
