“Reports?” I frowned. “Who’ve you been talking to?”
Granddaddy came over to the desk and sat down in the wooden kitchen chair beside it. “Think I’m blind? BeBe, I’ve been in business in Savannah for sixty years. I may be old, but I’m not stupid. Besides, half the fellas in my poker club are retired bankers. Bankers are terrible gossips, you know. Never tell a banker a secret in this town.”
“So, everybody in town knows? My brothers? Arch? The rest of them too?”
He nodded. “If Arch knows, they all know.”
“God,” I moaned. “They’ll never let me live this down. Not that I blame them. I was responsible for your finances. And I blew it.”
“I’m responsible for our finances,” Granddaddy said firmly. “Always have been. I trusted you to take care of some matters, and you did that very well, until you made a very foolish mistake.”
“Foolish is putting it mildly,” I said. “I was an ass. And I lost everything.”
“Not everything,” Granddaddy said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. That money market you were managing, well, it was a lot of money. But it wasn’t everything.” He allowed himself a tight smile. “Not nearly everything.”
“You’re not broke?”
“Not rich, not broke,” he said. “Comfortable. That’s all I ever aimed for. Lorena and I have been very blessed. And very careful,” he added.
“Thank God for that,” I said fervently. “I could deal with losing my own money. But it was killing me that Reddy stole from you, too. I was afraid you’d lose your place at the home, I mean, Magnolia Manor. That you’d be out on the street. Like me.”
“It’d take a lot more than some snotty-nosed little pretty boy to put Spencer Loudermilk on the street,” Granddaddy said. He patted my knee. “So you can stop worrying about the old folks. We’ll be just fine.”
“No,” I said. “That was your money Reddy stole. I won’t rest until I get it all back. And I’m going to. You wait and see. I’m going down to Fort Lauderdale, and I’m going to get back every damn dime he took. With interest.”
“That so?” Granddaddy said, looking thoughtful. “What did you have in mind?”
37
Harry drove. But I insisted on riding shotgun, so Weezie and Granddaddy sat in the backseat of the Buick, dozing all the way down Interstate 95 to Fort Lauderdale. Grandaddy snored so loudly, I couldn’t believe Weezie could sleep through the racket.
While our accomplices slept, Harry and I passed the time by bickering.
“Did you show Cheri how to use the credit card machine?” I asked.
He shot me a look. “She knows how to use one. She works at a bar, remember?”
“What about cleaning the rooms? Are you sure Cheri’s daughter understands how important it is that those rooms are absolutely spotless—every day?”
“She understands,” Harry said.
“I hope she remembers about not putting too much bleach in with the sheets and towels,” I fussed. “The last time, you bleached holes in half of them.”
“I told her no more than a cup per load,” Harry said.
“I use three-quarters of a cup.”
“And your whites never look as good as mine,” he said smugly.
“Cheri is a very nice person,” I started. “And don’t get me wrong, I’m really grateful she offered to run the Breeze while we’re gone. I just hope she leaves the leather look at home. I don’t want our guests thinking we’re some kind of biker hangout.”
“What’s wrong with bikers?” Harry asked. “Their money’s as good as anybody else’s. We’ve got a Harley-Davidson club coming the last weekend of the month. They’ve booked every room we have.”
“Since when?” I asked, alarmed.
“You took the booking,” he said.
“I certainly did not.”
“It’s your handwriting on the reservation book. PAHLs?”
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “I assumed it was some kind of civic organization. The woman who booked it sounded very refined.”
“Piedmont Area Hawg Lovers,” Harry said. “I guess you could call that a civic organization. They booked us for their spring ride last year too, even though only half the rooms were fit for a real hog.”
“God,” I said, running my hands through my hair. “What other kinds of riffraff have you booked into the place while I was looking the other way?”
“Bikers are not riffraff, damnit,” Harry said. “These people are reputable businesspeople, doctors, lawyers. I know they have at least one superior court judge.”
“Never mind,” I told him, closing my eyes to signal that we were done with this particular argument. “No matter what I say, you’re going to accuse me of being a snob.”
“Because you are a snob,” Harry said. “You judge people solely on the basis of their looks. Which is why we’re on our way to Florida right now.”
“I am not a snob,” I said, turning my back to him. “I have friends from all walks of life. Bartenders, chefs, antiques dealers.”
“Stuck-up downtown parasites,” Harry said.
“I’m not having this discussion,” I said.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s talk about the plan. None of this is very clear to me.”
“It’s a work in progress,” I admitted. “But in essence, the plan is to steal my money back from Roy Eugene Moseley, or Rodolfo Martinez, or whatever the hell name he’s going by these days. And the key to that, I think, is to get ourselves a yacht.”
“And not just any yacht,” Harry said, “a Sea Urchin, which you yourself said starts at around eight million.”
“True.”
“Right. And how do you propose to acquire said yacht?”
“Well…Weezie is a very attractive woman.”
“Thank you,” Weezie said groggily. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Why are you handing me compliments in the middle of the day?”
“It’s a fact,” I said. “In a caper such as the one we’re going to execute, you have to use the weapons you have. We don’t have any real weapons, as such.”
“I hate guns,” Weezie said.
“Me too,” I agreed. Then I patted the Electra’s glove compartment. “Although I did borrow Granddaddy’s little twenty-two for the trip.”
“What?” Harry and Weezie said in unison.
“What’s that?” Granddaddy chimed in. “Is it lunchtime yet?”
“We had lunch an hour ago,” I pointed out. “You had mashed potatoes, green beans, fried apples, and three pork chops, not to mention a huge slab of pie at the Cracker Barrel. How can you possibly be hungry again?”
“Loudermilks have very highly tuned metabolisms,” Granddaddy said proudly. “When I was a boy, I could eat a pound of bacon and half a dozen eggs for breakfast, along with grits and biscuits and jelly. I’ve slacked off some in that department. But I don’t gain an ounce. Nossir.” He patted his belly. “These pants I’m wearing right this minute I bought at Wagstaff’s Department Store on Broughton Street in 1956.”
Said pants had once been black serge, but were now faded to a mottled gray, with a seat so shiny you could practically see your reflection in it.
“Wow,” Weezie said admiringly. “I remember Wagstaff’s. There was an old black gentleman in a tuxedo who ran the elevator. When I was a little girl, I used to think he was president of the store.”
“That was Ronald,” Granddaddy said. “A fine man. He knew every customer who came in the store. But what was that you kids were saying about guns?”
“I was saying we brought your little pistol just in case there’s any trouble. I know it’s just an itty-bitty little popgun. But there’s a lot of crime in South Florida.”
“No guns,” Harry said sternly. “Promise me or I’m outta here right now.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you can go ahead and go,” I grumbled. “It wasn’t my idea to bring you along anyway.”
“BeBe!” Weezie exclaimed. “You promised to
be nice.”
“This is me being nice,” I said through gritted teeth.
“No guns,” Weezie said, gripping my shoulders with both hands. “Promise.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly.
“Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye,” Weezie prompted.
“All right. Cross my heart, blah, blah, blah.”
“Damned left-wing radicals,” Granddaddy muttered.
“No guns!” Weezie repeated.
“Now, what other kind of weapons were you saying we possess?” Harry asked.
“Weezie’s attractive. We’re both smart, and in this one case, I have an intimate knowledge of the criminal we’re pursuing. I know what he likes, how he operates.”
“Do you know how to steal a yacht?” Harry asked.
“Borrow. We’re going to borrow one. That’s why I agreed to bring you along.”
“Not for my brains and good looks?”
“Hah. We need a crew for our yacht. You’re a boat captain, so it seems to me you should be able to captain a yacht.”
“Piece of cake,” Harry said. “Again, how are you going to acquire said yacht?”
“I’ll know when we get there,” I said.
“And when you get this yacht, you mentioned stealing your money back from Moseley. How?”
“Simple. I’m going to sell him the yacht.”
“I thought that was my job,” Granddaddy grumped.
“Right,” I agreed. “Granddaddy’s going to be our yacht broker. He’s been practicing. He’s brilliant. He could sell ice cream to Eskimoes. But this time he’s going to sell Reddy a yacht. And that way, I’ll have my money.”
“Our money,” Granddaddy said. “I still think we should just kidnap the fella and beat the living daylights out of him until he coughs it up.”
“And we’ll be on our way to jail for selling something we don’t own. In South Florida. Where there is, as you pointed out, a helluva lot of crime,” Harry said.
“No jail,” Weezie said from the backseat. “Been there, done that. Have either of you two ever been fingerprinted? Had your shoes and all your belongings taken away from you? I have, and I’m not ever doing it again, not even for my best friend. Not for all the shrimp in Savannah.”
“No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head at Weezie and Harry’s lack of vision. “It’s simple. We get a yacht. Borrow one. Set Weezie up as the owner. Advertise said yacht, at a bargain price, and wait for Moseley to come skulking around. Voilà! I’m in the money.”
I allowed myself a small smile of satisfaction at having worked it all out—and in the face of such serious negativity.
“You’re crazy,” Harry said, shaking his head. “This is not a plan. This is a fantasy. And a dangerous one too.”
38
When we were two hours north of Ft. Lauderdale, I called Sabrina Berg’s number again, and again got her answering machine.
Weezie and I had spent a frustrating ten minutes, the night before leaving, staring at the murky video she’d sent James of the mysterious Rodolfo Martinez.
“Is that him?” Weezie asked, squinting at the man in the video, who appeared to be busy opening cupboard doors in the master cabin, and pausing to admire himself, more than once, in a full-length mirror.
“I can’t tell,” I said, pushing the pause button on the television’s remote control. “The build is right, and the hairline looks the same as Reddy’s, although this guy’s hair is much darker, and longer. It’s hard to tell with the dark glasses and the crappy lighting.”
“But you think it’s him, right?” Weezie asked.
“Well, yeah. It’s him. Probably.”
“Probably?” Weezie said, turning to look at me. “BeBe, probably isn’t a good enough reason to go all the way to Fort Lauderdale.”
The shadowy figure in the video turned sideways to admire his physique in the mirror, and that’s when I saw the glint on his wrist.
“Son of a bitch,” I exclaimed, hitting the pause button again, and crawling toward the television until I was directly in front of it.
“Son of a bitch!” I repeated. “It’s him all right.”
“How do you know?” Weezie asked.
“Right there,” I said, jabbing the screen with my forefinger. “He’s wearing my daddy’s watch. It’s an antique twenty-two-carat gold Piaget. Mama gave it to Daddy for their twenty-fifth anniversary. It was in my jewelry box. That lying, low-down scumbag!”
“Ballsy,” Weezie said.
“He’s going to pay,” I vowed. “Pay big-time.”
“At least he didn’t sell it. Like he did your aunt’s painting.”
“I’m going to rip his arm off and beat him to death with it,” I told her.
Now, after a bathroom break and a stop to pick up more Kit Kat bars and chocolate milk for my grandfather, we were only an hour north of Lauderdale, and I was getting anxious to make contact with the last known person to have had a Reddy sighting.
I dialed Sabrina Berg’s number again. It rang five times, but she finally picked up.
“Sabrina?” I said quickly. “This is BeBe Loudermilk.”
“Hey there,” she said. She had a pronounced Southern accent. “I just talked to your lawyer. He told me you might be headed down this way. I take it you think Rodolfo Martinez is the man you’re looking for?”
“It’s him,” I said. “Positively. “Look. I’m about an hour away. I was wondering if you’d have time to chat with me?”
“Gee,” she said hesitantly. “When did you have in mind? Tomorrow I’ve got a nail appointment in the morning, and then a lunch date, and a tennis lesson at three…”
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was nearly three. It felt as if we’d been on the road for days.
“How about later this afternoon? I know it’s short notice, and I hate to impose, but I really need to talk to you.”
“Yes, that would work. I’m having dinner with a friend at the marina at six.”
“The marina?” I said anxiously. “The same one where you keep your boat?”
“Kept. Past tense,” she corrected me. “I sold the Pair-o’-Docs. To the lowest bidder.” She chuckled. “My ex nearly had a seizure when he found out the price. Now I’m shopping for a new boat. Something without any nasty memories attached to it.”
“Is there a place near the marina where we could meet for a drink and talk?”
“There’s the Binnacle,” she said. “It’s at Seventeenth Street, right there on the water. Do you know the place?”
“No, but if you give me directions, I’ll find it,” I promised. “I’m a quick study.”
Although I was good at directions, Harry refused to believe I knew where we were going. An hour and ten minutes (and two wrong turns) later, Harry pulled up to the door of a large wooden structure that looked like a Disney version of a pirate’s ship.
He hadn’t even turned off the engine before a deeply tanned kid wearing a white shirt, khaki shorts, and a canvas pith helmet was pulling his door open.
“Welcome to the Binnacle,” the kid said. “Valet parking is seven dollars.”
“Christalmighty!” Granddaddy bellowed from the backseat. “We want to park the thing, not rent a room.”
Harry looked to me for guidance.
“Just let me out here,” I suggested. “See if you can find a reasonable motel nearby. I’ll call you on your cell when I’m ready to be picked up.”
I jammed Granddaddy’s floppy canvas golf hat on my head, and donned my own dark sunglasses, in the off chance Reddy might be lurking around the premises.
“Let’s find some food,” Granddaddy told Harry. “And a liquor store. I think I might be dehydrated.”
Sabrina Berg had told me she’d be wearing a white pantsuit with an orange scarf, and that she’d be sitting at the bar. What she hadn’t told me was that the pantsuit was Donna Karan, and that she was an African-American knockout.
“Sabrina?” I asked as she
sipped from a long-stemmed martini glass. Her bare arm was circled with half a dozen gold bangle bracelets, and on the ring finger of her right hand she wore a huge headlight of a diamond solitaire, at least five carats.
“BeBe!” she said warmly. “You found me.” She patted the empty barstool beside her. “I was starting to worry that you’d gotten lost.”
“My friend took a couple of wrong turns,” I said. “Your directions were fine.”
A female bartender dressed in an abbreviated sailor’s suit set a coaster down on the bar in front of me. “Something to drink?” she asked.
“They do a killer lemon martini,” Sabrina suggested.
“I’ll try that,” I said.
Sabrina held up her half-empty glass. “Same thing.”
Sabrina Berg was in her mid-thirties, I guessed, with glossy hair that fell softly to her shoulders. Her skin was the color of caramel, and flawless. Everything about her said high cost, high maintenance.
“Now,” Sabrina said, when our drinks were placed in front of us. “What can I tell you about this Rodolfo Martinez person?”
“Everything you know,” I said, looking around the room. The far wall of the Binnacle was all glass, looking out on rows of slips with a forest of gleaming white yachts and sailboats. Although it was barely four-thirty, the place was crowded with a mix of young, hip, yachting types and older, well-dressed men and women in pricey resort wear.
“I told your lawyer most of it,” Sabrina said. “I got a call from this man. He said he’d seen the Pair-o’-Docs listing in BUC, and he was very interested in looking at it. We arranged to meet at the slip. He showed up right on time. Asked a lot of questions, and spent a lot of time in the engine room. I got the feeling he knew his way around boats.”
“I couldn’t see his face very well in the video,” I said. “Did he ever remove the dark glasses?”
“No,” she said, her large hazel eyes widening. “And that made me a little suspicious. This is South Florida, so everybody down here wears sunglasses. But his were these creepy mirrored kind. Like a redneck highway patrolman wears, you know?”
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