Killer in Crinolines

by Duffy Brown

  I finished off my last olive. “Yeah, but there are a lot of other possibilities that make sense too, like Waynetta herself wanting Simon dead because she caught him messing with Bridesmaid, GracieAnn wanting Simon dead for dumping her for Chantilly, Icy wanting Simon dead for his grandson’s sake, and Pillsbury wanting Simon dead because he hurt Chantilly, the secret love of his life.”

  “Didn’t know about Chantilly and Pillsbury.”

  “Boone told me and considering Pillsbury’s connections I’d say we keep that bit of information to ourselves. Do you think Bridesmaid could have polished off Simon because she was afraid Waynetta would find out about the two of them having a hot fling? You saw Waynetta at the cemetery. She’s not a forgive and forget kind of woman, she’s an I’m going to get you if it’s the last thing I do kind of woman. I bet Bridesmaid’s name is getting permanently and forever removed from all social Savannah events even as we speak. The Waverlys have that kind of clout and all because of a roll in the hay, or in this case the closet, which had to be downright uncomfortable if you ask me.”

  KiKi sipped at her martini, gaze fixed, brain stewing. “I bet when we go to Simon’s condo we’ll find more people who couldn’t stand the man. You don’t get yourself into this much trouble without leaving a trail of some sort.”

  “I suppose you don’t have any idea on how we’re going to get in that condo?”

  “Thought I’d leave that up to you, sweet pea.” KiKi snagged my glass and polished off the last gulp. “Tomorrow I have a dance lesson at eight, you have a belly-dancing class at nine, and the Daughters of the Confederacy are having a late luncheon over at the Pirate House. I think they’re wanting to put yet another cannon down there on the riverfront. Tipper Longford and his band of merry men are doing a reenactment over at Emmet Park for us so that pretty well shoots the day, literally speaking I might add. We’ll just have to visit Simon’s domicile tomorrow night.”

  I was a little numb between the ears but not that numb. “Me? Belly-dancing? Since when? I just did dinner with Doc Hunky for you.”

  “Oh, honey, Doc Hunky was for you and my belly does considerably more flopping and dropping than dancing these days. I’m fiftyish and I do like my dessert.”

  I couldn’t afford dessert. “But I’ll have to wear one of those jingly skirts with little bells, my midriff and navel haven’t seen the light of day for years, and I don’t have enough boobs to keep a tied-on blouse up. I have a business to run, you know.”

  “The Silver Spoon Girls want to get in shape for their annual trip to Italy. If they lose a few pounds now, it’s more red wine and pasta in Tuscany, not to mention firmer tushies to get pinched by all those fine I-talian men. They send their offspring to me for cotillion dance lessons every year. They’re repeat customers. I can’t disappoint, now can I?”

  One teenage summer I was plump, pimply, and depressed with no friends. After three months of dance lessons with Auntie KiKi I lost weight and was pretty much the hit at any party. That was the good side of dancing. The bad side was I could teach belly dancing. “No way.”

  “Ten gals at fifteen bucks a pop for one hour’s work.”

  “See you at nine.”

  KiKi saluted me with the two empty glasses and did a little swing step all the way back to Rose Gate, the house named after the roses twined into the wrought-iron framework of the garden gate designed by Colonel Bubba Vanderpool himself. I brought BW inside, gave him his daily hot dog and favorite blankie, then slung my purse over my shoulder. I set off for Simon’s place, the clock at St. John’s bonging out ten. KiKi would have a hissy I went to the condo without her but I’d rather face Auntie KiKi in a snit than put her in danger. Not that I expected anything bad to happen at Simon’s; it wasn’t even the crime scene. But there were a few glitches to consider, like breaking and entering being against the law, a murderer running around town, and a bunch of people jubilant that Simon was six feet under at Bonaventure who didn’t want their names connected with the situation.

  Sticking my nose where it didn’t belong was never healthy under such circumstances. I knew that from personal experience.

  Chapter Nine

  WHATEVER Simon Ambrose was into, he did a first-rate job of it. His place was located in a restored red brick 1890s Romanesque building facing Wright Square. The square was named after the last British governor of Savannah. Honoring Wright made as much sense as Harry S. and his parkway, but the fact remained that anything facing one of the twenty-three squares in Savannah, no matter whom they were named after, cost more money than I’d see in a lifetime.

  I sat on a wood bench in the square, sweating, shooing away palmetto bugs big as my foot. I watched Simon’s building and the people going in and out. There was a code on a sophisticated-looking pad at the main door, meaning decent security. If I’d known that, I could have asked Chantilly how to gain access. A ’57 red Chevy convertible motored down Whittaker, Boone and a chickie obviously out for the night. Where did Boone take his chickies? Someplace swanky, then to bed no doubt. The man probably notched his headboard to keep count, the thing having so many notches by now it was in serious risk of collapse. Not that I cared.

  A young guy went to the door of the building, pulled out his keys and his iPhone. He punched around on the phone, then plugged in the code. Bingo. A newbie. A guy newbie who hadn’t memorized the entrance code yet and kept it stored on his phone. I’d lip-gloss my way into Simon’s condo. I rooted around in Old Yeller and came up with a few things from my pre-divorce days. Amazing what gets lost in a big purse. I gooped up my eyes, ratted my hair, added two shades of lipstick and eye shadow, and opened my blouse, letting my pink bra show. Tacky. Guys loved tacky.

  I crossed the street and found the intercom and the name printed in dark black not yet having time to fade from the sun. Beau Delong Jr. Sweet mother, it was like taking candy from a baby. I hit Beau’s doorbell, smiled into the camera saying that I had the condo on the other side, just moved in, couldn’t think of that silly old code thing to save my life and if he could just buzz me on in I’d be mighty grateful indeed.

  Like I said, taking candy from a baby. He buzzed me straight in.

  Chantilly had mentioned previously that Simon had the corner condo, second floor. I looked over the doorframe for a spare key and under a little table in the hallway with a fake ficus beside it. In desperation I tried the door handle and it turned. A burglary? I peeked inside to a TV that rivaled a movie theater. No burglary, but there was an ADT pad by the door blinking green. Thank the Lord it wasn’t blinking red. Seemed to me like the anxious groom was in such a hurry on his wedding day that he didn’t bother to lock up or he just didn’t care about what was left. My chances of unearthing anything important were slim to none.

  Simon’s black leather couch was soft as a baby’s bottom. I know because I tried it out. I resisted the temptation to check HBO with the remote sitting right there on the end table next to his Employee of the Year trophy. A floor light on a timer lit up the place. One of those tall contemporary open bookcases with shelves crisscrossed on the diagonal separated the living and dining areas and, from the looks of it, Simon was not a great reader. The place had original hardwood floors, the dining room table from Pottery Barn, same as the chairs. I could picture Simon moving easily around his pad, doing his thing, chatting with one of his babes on his iPhone.

  I wandered into the kitchen, putting off the bedroom. Lord only knew what I’d find there, but the kitchen was great, with granite countertops, new appliances, and one of those fancy-dancy coffeemakers that used little individual cups and churned out flavors like Mudslide, French Vanilla Bean, and Double Mocha Latte. I had a sudden attack of kitchen envy. Not that I was a great cook, I wasn’t even a good cook, but everything here was new and shiny and under warranty. The warranty on my appliances had fizzled out around 1980.

  I opened drawers to mostly emptiness, cupboards the same except for five glasses, two plates, a pack of those coffee pods, and a plastic co
ntainer of chocolate chip cookies from Cakery Bakery. Now that was interesting. Simon stayed in contact with GracieAnn?

  A six-pack of Moon River sat alone in the fridge, a half gallon of Rocky Road in the freezer. I closed the freezer door, then opened it again, staring at the big lonely ice cream container. Not a pint for a bachelor needing a Rocky Road fix at midnight but a big old half-gallon. I figured I had about as much in common with Simon Ambrose as I did with Lady Gaga. However I thought an ice cream container made a good hiding place so maybe . . . I took out the container, pried up the end flaps to find a brown spiral notebook wedged inside. I so needed a new place to hide my cash.

  I put the carton back and headed for the front door, book in hand, my feet not touching the floor. Was I good or what! This was Sherlock Holmes good, Hercule Poirot good, Nancy—Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the bookcase coming right at me . . . falling? Holy cow, it was falling! I dropped the book and put out my hands to stop the impact. Not moving fast enough it flattened me to the floor, the bookcase landing with a thud on my back. I couldn’t talk, the wind knocked out of me. Thank the Lord Simon wasn’t into Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. I blinked a few times fast to get my eyes to focus. The lamp went out and a beam from a flashlight danced around the floor. Footsteps came closer, then stopped. I was pinned down and could only make out shadows from the outside streetlights. There was some movement and rummaging around. The steps retreated, the front door opened, then closed. Note to self, unlocked door means someone is inside.

  My head throbbed, my back ached. This is why I hated little places. It was hard to get out of little places. Nowhere to move. Nowhere to turn. Little prickles of panic danced up my back. It was hard to breathe. If I didn’t do something, I could rot here. I couldn’t rot. I had a dog to feed, a shop to open, a belly-dancing class to teach. Amazing how much I wanted to teach that class. Tinkling bells and bare feet sounded pretty good right now. Maybe if I wedged my hands under my body and pushed, I could raise the bookshelf up on my shoulders and try to squirm my way out. The door opened again and the lights came on. “Reagan, are you in here?”

  “Boone?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Where do you think I am?”

  There was a string of curse words right off Seventeenth Street. “What happened this time?” Boone hoisted the bookcase upright, books and knickknacks littering the floor around me.

  “This time? What do you mean, this time?”

  Boone hunkered down beside me on the floor. “Are you okay? Can you move? You’re bleeding.” More cursing. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

  “No!” I flipped myself over onto my back, landed fish style, staring at the ceiling, pain shooting up my arms and legs as all my bones realigned. “I’m not in here by invitation and Mamma’s running for city council.” I tried to sit but Boone held me down, running his hands on my legs. What in the world?

  “Can you feel that?”

  “Y . . . Yeah.”

  An intent look on his face, he rubbed my arms. “How about that.”

  Oh, yeah, I could feel that just fine. “You could have hit your head.” Boone ran his fingers through my hair. They were warm and gentle and caring. I felt safe and secure and . . . and . . . What was I thinking? Boone was a big pain in the butt and had been for two years straight, I reminded myself.

  I shoved his hands away and bolted straight up, pain shooting everywhere. “I’m okay, I swear on my mother’s grave I’m okay.”

  A slow grin played across Boone’s mouth and he sat cross-legged like we were at camp around a fire ready to toast marshmallows. His white shirt lay open at the neck, sleeves rolled up, well-worn jeans. Nice package in front. Not that I cared about any packages, just an observation is all.

  “Your mother’s still alive.” Boone took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to my forehead. I flinched at the pain. “Did you black out? If you did, you really need to go to the hospital, cops or no cops.”

  “Just winded. Need to catch my breath. Thanks for getting the bookcase off me. I owe you.” And I did, no matter how much I didn’t want to.

  “Any idea who did this?”

  “I think I smelled vanilla.”

  Boone pointed to a toppled candle. “Simon the romantic.”

  “You should know that GracieAnn from Cakery Bakery may be stopping by your house. I sort of told her you were helping me with Chantilly’s case. She called you a beefcake.”

  Boone closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Why me?”

  “I was trying for information, and you were my ace. There, I told you and now we’re even. You lifted the bookcase and I warned you about GracieAnn. Done.”

  “We’re not even. You’re the one who sicced GracieAnn on me in the first place.”

  “How’d you get in here?”

  “I saw you sitting on the bench when I drove by. I surmised you weren’t outside Simon’s condo enjoying the night air. The light to Simon’s condo was on then. It’s on every night. When I came back it was off and you were gone. I figured you went in but why would you turn off the light? Didn’t add up, and with your knack of winding up in places you shouldn’t be I thought I’d check it out.”

  “How’d you get past the code by the front door?”

  “I know a woman on the first floor.”

  “Well, of course you know a woman on the first floor. You know a woman on every floor, in every building.”

  Boone smoothed down my hair. “She does my taxes.” He plucked at the sliver of pink bra showing. “I bet I know how you got in.”

  I blushed. I could feel the heat clear up to the roots of my hair that needed another dye job bad. Enough comparing sex appeal for one night, especially since I’d lose. “Can we get out of here?”

  Boone put his arm around my back and helped me onto the couch. “Why are you being nice to me?” I asked him. “You weren’t nice in my divorce.”

  “You were stupid in your divorce. Though coming in here wasn’t an act of genius. There’s a killer running around, remember? Why are you here anyway? What the heck are you looking for?”

  I was all ticked off at the stupid comment until the looking for comment came along and jarred my brain. “Oh, no!” In the throws of near death and contemplating rotting away, I forgot about the notebook. I glanced around the floor. “It’s gone. That’s what he was after.”

  “What’s gone? Who’s after what?”

  This was always the great dilemma with me and Boone. How much to tell him? He never leveled with me. Oh, he’d give up smidges of information to try to cajole more information out of me, but he never did the full-disclosure thing. Yet here he was lifting bookcases off me and getting tagged as beefcake because I opened my big mouth. I wobbled to my feet and took a few deep breaths to steady myself. “Simon was into loan-sharking and womanizing, not that I’m telling you anything you don’t already know. I was looking for something that would point to his killer.” I headed for the door.

  “What did you find?” Boone snagged Old Yeller from the floor and turned the door handle. We stepped into the hall and Boone reset the lock. Neighbors had big ears so we didn’t say anything till we got outside and started down Whittaker. “I found a notebook in Simon’s freezer,” I said figuring I owed Boone something and this I could tell him because the notebook was gone. “It probably had a list of people who owed Simon money and my guess is someone on that list killed him. Either they owned him money they couldn’t pay or there was information that needed to be kept quiet for some reason.”

  Interest flickered in Boone’s eyes. Usually his eyes gave nothing away, calm and cool and dark. So dark. “How did you know to look in the freezer?” he asked.

  “Hey, don’t knock the freezer. It’s a darn good place to hide stuff, so I’ve heard.” I stopped by Boone’s convertible, my brain starting to function beyond life and death and ice cream. “That’s how you knew about the light that’s always on. You’ve been to Simon’s condo befo
re. You were looking for stuff on Simon too. Why did you go see Reese Waverly? How does he play into all this mess?”

  Boone opened the passenger side for me. “I can’t say.”

  I sank down into the cushy white upholstery and Boone took the driver’s side. “Sugar-Ray was sharing a bottle of white rum with Marguerite today out at Bonaventure,” I said to Boone. “He was chanting something about the Waverlys and money and Simon. I think Sugar-Ray killed Simon and Reese paid him to do it so Simon couldn’t marry Waynetta. Simon was scum and Reese knew it. Maybe you’re the one who gave him a heads-up on the guy?”

  A half smile pulled at Boone’s mouth. “Now that’s a new one.” Boone put the car in gear and eased into the light traffic. He circled the square with the rest of the one-way traffic, old iron lamplights casting the city in a warm golden glow. At night the city was made for romance and lovers and here I was with a bump on my head, essential evidence gone, and Walker Boone.

  We headed down Abercorn toward the Victorian district and Boone said, “You’re right in that Sugar-Ray’s not the namby-pamby most people think he is.”

  “What about Icy Graham and Pillsbury?”

  “You got a list of some pretty mean dudes there, Blondie.”

  “So what do I do about it? Go back to managing my shop and let Chantilly take the fall for something she didn’t do because these guys don’t play nice?”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “Like that’s going to happen. You’re bought and paid for by Reese Waverly.” I knew that wasn’t true before I opened my mouth. No one owned Walker Boone. I folded my arms and sat back. “I just said that ’cause I’m mad about the bookcase and not having any solid leads. Chantilly’s a friend of mine and you think she’s guilty.”

  Boone pulled up in front my house, motor running. He turned sideways in his seat and leveled me a cold, hard stare. “I think Chantilly didn’t mean to be guilty. She was mad, furious mad and jealous. Bad combination and there was a knife right there on the table. It just happened.”