Demise in Denim

by Duffy Brown

  KiKi hung a right onto Abercorn as the sun was just peeking through the live oaks. We watched Savannah come to life with the usual morning rituals of getting the paper, walking the dog, catching the bus, drinking Starbucks, and putting on makeup while driving. KiKi found a parking space a block away from the bakery, and we followed BW, his doggie nose hot on the doughnut scent.

  “Mercy me, there’s a line?” KiKi gasped when we got to the green storefront with a cupcake etched on the glass double doors. We walked past the little white tables littering the sidewalk for al fresco carb indulging, then went inside.

  “What in the world is everyone doing up at this hour?” KiKi huffed as we passed the customers sitting in wire-frame sweetheart chairs with matching marble-top tables. A ceiling light decorated with gingerbread cookies added to the delicious ambiance of the bakery, and a cupcake clock on the far wall ticked off the minutes. I swear I gained two pounds just surveying the décor. KiKi beelined for the display cases in the back, and her dismay over the crowd quickly gave way to the lure of things round, fried, and filled. She pressed her nose to the glass. “So many doughnuts,” she murmured, a bit dreamy. “So little time.”

  “You! Reagan Summerside! Get out of my shop,” a voice called from behind me.

  I spun around to face GracieAnn Harlow, the new owner of the Cakery Bakery. GracieAnn had gone pleasantly to plump as all bakery owners should, least in my opinion. She had on a pink dress, the Cakery Bakery uniform, and a white apron with an order pad and pencil stuck in the front pocket. GracieAnn was such a kidder these days, always poking fun and having a laugh . . . least that was what I thought till I got hit in the forehead with a raspberry truffle doughnut covered in a chocolate drizzle.

  “Get out!” GracieAnn pointed to the door as drips of raspberry trailed down my nose.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Out!”

  “But . . . but we’re friends,” I said. “We’re buds. I rescued you, remember. And I’m one of your best customers.” I stuck out my tongue and captured a drizzle. “What’s this all about?”

  GracieAnn pursed her mouth tight, her green eyes little slits. “For the record, it was Walker Boone, that darling hunka-hunka man, who rescued me, and you’re nothing but a traitor, a Judas, a double-crossing hypocrite. I saw the morning news on TV.” She pointed to a TV in the corner, as everyone in the shop nodded in agreement. “We all heard what you said. You want Boone behind bars!” A bear claw filled with vanilla custard went splat across my chest.

  “You got this all wrong. I can explain.”

  “We heard what we heard,” GracieAnn added, and the ticked-off looks on the other customers’ faces suggested that if I didn’t leave on my own they’d help me along.

  I leaned across the counter and hooked my finger at GracieAnn to do the same. “I just said what I did to get Boone’s enemies to talk to me so I can find the real killer,” I whispered, our noses inches apart.

  GracieAnn’s eyes got beady. “You’d say anything for a doughnut.”

  “Okay, I can’t argue that, but I’m not lying.” I did the cross-over-my-heart routine.

  “Hit the bricks.”

  “Not even one glazed to see me on my way?”

  “Out!” GracieAnn’s breath smelled of vanilla and cinnamon. I inhaled the scent of secondhand doughnut as GracieAnn glared at Auntie KiKi. “And what about you?”

  KiKi studied the full display case and smacked her lips. BW fused himself to her leg and KiKi pointed to me. “I never saw that woman in my life and neither did this dog and that’s our story and we’re sticking to it and we’ll take two crullers, four sprinkles, and a coffee and a water to go, thank you very much.”

  When it came to doughnuts and family loyalty, doughnuts won every time. Picking chunks of bear claw off my shirt, I plopped them into my mouth and headed for the door. I sat at one of the shaded little white tables on the sidewalk and waited for KiKi to come out. One of those sprinkle doughnuts she ordered better have my name on it.

  “Lord have mercy, girl, what do you think you’re doing?” Mercedes said as she hustled up to the table and wedged herself into the tiny wrought-iron chair across from me. Mercedes was housekeeper extraordinaire by day and mortician beautician by night, meaning not much happened in this city without her getting wind of it. She drove a pink Caddy and dressed right out of Nordstrom’s catalog. Sprucing things up living or dead paid a heck of a lot better than running a consignment shop.

  “Honey,” she said to me. “Are you trying to get yourself killed, and if you are you need to be touching up your roots for when they find your sorry carcass. What’s it going to be? Blonde? Brunette? Make a choice, ’cause right now you look skunk and you need better clothes. You run a nice consignment shop, for Pete’s sake.”

  “I can’t afford my consignment shop.”

  “I declare, girl, how do you keep getting into these messes?”

  “So are we talking about that fire out at the lumberyard a few months ago, or when that house exploded and I sort of lost my eyebrows, or when I drove into the marsh with the alligators, or—”

  “I’m talking about today, this very morning. You were on the news, big as you please. That’s how I knew you were here having doughnuts at the Cakery Bakery . . . where else would you go at this hour?”

  “So, besides the roots and nightshirt, did I look all that bad?”

  “You looked like we should be measuring you for a coffin.” Mercedes let out a long-suffering sigh. “You know Mr. Boone has friends, mighty good friends like me, who won’t be taking kindly to that crack about wanting to put the man behind bars.”

  “I got a plan.”

  “We’ll be sure to put that in your obituary.”

  “Detective Ross said I had to act like I was anti-Boone so the suspects wouldn’t clam up when I started snooping around. If they suspected I was out to find the real killer I’d get nowhere fast.”

  “Did you ever stop to consider the little fact that you’re not going to get any help from the pro-Boone camp, and that includes Big Joey, Pillsbury, and the Seventeenth Street boys? My guess is that particular group’s hunting you down this very minute. You need to straighten them out before you’re on the receiving end of more than flying doughnuts.” Mercedes swiped a glob of custard from my chin just as Auntie KiKi and BW pranced out of the bakery with a piled-high tray of goodies, having obviously seen Mercedes out here with me.

  Without saying a word we set out the coffee and split the doughnut collection, and I put BW’s portion on the tray on the sidewalk. Simultaneously we all selected a portion of the sprinkle variety and savored the moment. It was the good-friends-plus-pup way of doing things around here.

  Mercedes licked icing off her thumb and looked at me. “Okay, now that we’re sugared and caffeinated, we need to be thinking about who did in Conway and we need to be doing it quick before the cops find Mr. Boone. The man won’t go peaceful, we all know that, and it would be a crying shame if something happened to his fine self. He sure does offer up some nice eye candy around here.”

  KiKi added another packet of sugar to the coffee just in case three packets weren’t enough. “If you want my opinion, Tucker Adkins gets top billing after breaking into Reagan’s house last night.”

  Mercedes dropped her doughnut in her coffee. “Sweet mother. Why would he do such a thing?”

  KiKi took a nibble of her cinnamon twist. “He says he’s looking to avenge his daddy dearest and put Boone in jail, but he’s more interested in the jail part than the daddy part, I can promise you that.”

  Mercedes spooned her doughnut out of her coffee. “I know the maid over there at Lillibridge House. I help her clean on occasion when she gets overworked or they got a party going on. She told me that Tucker and his daddy were never close. Fact is, she said Conway got along better with Steffy Lou than he ever did with his own son. Tucker was a m
amma’s boy, never worked a day in his life and walked off with a nice chunk of change when his mamma died. The thing is, after she died Conway told Tucker about Walker being his other son and he didn’t take it well at all.”

  I stopped a sprinkle doughnut halfway to my mouth. “‘Didn’t take it well’ in that he’d kill him?”

  Mercedes fed a chunk of doughnut to BW, his head in her lap. BW knew how to play a crowd. “Tucker Adkins likes nothing more than easy money and the good life. I can’t see the man risking jail over a half-brother he never knew he had. He might go ballistic and pitch a fit, but murder’s not his style, best I can tell.”

  She hunched across the table, drawing us all close. “But I got another idea. I’ve been thinking maybe those gold-digger sisters did in Conway. Anna and Bella had me on the phone last night making sure I put both their names on my clean and casket list. I only got so many openings, and they know if they get me to do their houses now I’ll take special care of their husbands when they get over to Eternal Slumber, which those two are hoping occurs right soon. It’s what happens when feisty twenty-somethings marry rich eighty-somethings. Seems like a mighty big coincidence that with Conway dead and Boone on the run, two spots came available with neither of the octogenarian boys in the best of health, from what I hear.”

  KiKi sipped her coffee and nodded. “And we all know that this being Savannah, there’s nothing more important than a proper funeral no matter who’s doing the dying, planned or otherwise.”

  “Waitaminute,” I said. “You really think Anna and Bella would knock off Conway and frame Walker to get Mercedes to clean for them?”

  “And bury their husbands proper when the time came so they wouldn’t get talked about,” Mercedes said. “Their grandma Annabelle was married three times, all to rich old men who wound up out at Bonaventure within two years of saying I do. Anna and Bella are legacy gold-diggers.”

  “And maybe killers,” KiKi chimed in. “I’d say those two are worth a look-see. Besides, and I hate to say it, we have no one else on our who-killed-Conway list.” KiKi let out a deep sigh, polished off her coffee, snagged a napkin and flicked glaze off her peach blouse, and then checked her watch. “I got a cha-cha lesson with Bernard Thayer at nine. Mr. Savannah Weather is determined to get on Dancing with the Stars this year or bust a gut trying. Least he pays double, and I got my eye on a Gucci purse on eBay.”

  “And I have a Tuesday house to clean,” Mercedes offered. “Then I’m heading over to the Slumber and take care of Conway as soon as the police release the body, and get him gussied up for the layout tomorrow. I owe him since I cleaned his place all these years. It’s going to take a mountain of putty to fill in that there hole between his beady little eyes. Getting shot with a .38 is nasty business, goes in like a BB and comes out like a potato. You should attend the funeral,” Mercedes said to me as KiKi and I stopped eating our last doughnut thanks to the potato comment.

  “Odds are good the killer will be there,” Mercedes went on. “He’ll want to be checking out his handiwork and it’s a fine time to step up your anti-Walker campaign if you really think it’ll work. You best be letting Big Joey and the boys in on your plan, and the sooner the better for your own good health, if you get my drift.”

  Mercedes headed off in one direction and KiKi in the other to collect the Beemer. I hitched Old Yeller onto my shoulder, and BW and I started across Broughton toward Seventeenth Street. We crossed MLK and the large perfectly restored Savannah houses gave way to smaller ones with faded paint and AC units perched in front windows, where few residents had the need to lay out and tan as theirs was hereditary.

  This was Big Joey territory, with Pillsbury the doughboy who managed the corporate money as second in command. The Seventeenth Street gang took care of their own and a few others along the way. They had a nice investment portfolio and a terrific health care plan that I could attest to, as they had graciously folded me into their system. I was tolerated in the land of not belonging mostly because I knew Boone and my crime-solving skills bordered on amusement and curiosity. None of that counted for squat today, proven by the fact that I had three of the boys following me, and from the looks on their faces this was not a welcoming committee.

  I stepped up my pace, and the boys did the same. I spotted the two pink myrtle trees that any Savannah gardener worth his blooms would salivate over, trotted up the steps, and knocked on the screen door.

  “I hear you be looking for trouble,” Big Joey said when he answered the door. He started to close it, but BW wiggled his way inside, looking for his usual treat as if all were normal.

  “It’s not what you think,” I blurted to Big Joey and the boys. “I’m trying to find Conway’s killer by acting like I want to get even with Boone for messing me in over my divorce. Here’s my plan: If I give the impression I’m anti-Boone, I’ll find others who have it in for him and maybe I’ll find out who set him up. Got any ideas?”

  Big Joey stepped out onto the porch as my escorts closed in from the back. I felt like an Oreo cookie.

  “You took his car,” Big Joey growled.

  “Hey, he took my new pink scooter.”

  This brought smiles all around, and the ominous atmosphere shattered. Guess pink-scooter topics of conversation didn’t come up all that often in the hood. Big Joey folded his muscled ebony arms across his chest and leaned against the porch post. “Sorry I missed that. Any idea where he be?” Big Joey asked, as my escorts ambled off.

  “My guess is Boone will steer clear of friends in case he gets caught. He wouldn’t want to drag us into any trouble with the police,” I said. “Maybe he’ll look me up once my I hate Walker Boone campaign gets going.”

  “That idea’s never going to happen with that dopey look on your face, babe.”

  “I’m trying for revenge mixed with loathing.”

  “Try harder.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “You chill, the boys and I got this.”

  “Except you really don’t,” I tried to reason. “Look, we have to work together. You can get into places I can’t, and I can get to places you can’t. Besides, I got another interest in this. I need the money. Conway Adkins was right in the middle of redecorating and he promised to consign his furniture with me. I had buyers lined up for his cherry dining room set and living room couch, cash in hand, ready to go, and then Conway goes and gets himself polished off.”

  “Thoughtless.”

  “I want to solve this case to get the crime scene tape off Conway’s house so I can get my furniture and buy a car of my very own.”

  Big Joey let out a deep sigh.

  “Hey, I’m a terrific driver.”

  This brought a smile, confirming my entertainment status. “Bus be good.”

  “I like cup holders.”

  “Later, babe.”

  BW and I headed for home: the Prissy Fox, a far trot from the land of brotherly love. Depending on the bus driver and if I happened to have a sandwich bribe from Zunzi’s, I could sometimes pass BW off as a furry child with leash and hitch a ride. Most of the time puppo was a big no-no. See, this was exactly why I needed a car, a nondiscriminatory mode of transportation.

  Duh, I had a car! I had Boone’s car! I didn’t take it last night because the press would follow in hot pursuit. But now that that particular ship had sailed, there was no reason to hide. I might have a hole in my porch roof, but I also had a ’57 Chevy convertible at my disposal. Seemed like a pretty fair trade since Boone had my scooter.

  Chapter Three

  “THIS was a really good idea,” I said to BW as I pulled the Chevy to a stop, letting a band of tourists cross State Street to get to Oglethorpe Square. Adam Levine sang to me from the radio and a hot twenty-something guy gave me a wink. A sassy poodle on a pink leash shook her pompom tail at BW and added a hey, big boy yap. “You got to admit,” I said to BW. “This kind of stuff never h
appened to us on a bus.”

  Tail wagging, BW sat up a little straighter, not taking his eyes off the poodle. “Don’t get any ideas, big boy.”

  BW leaned farther over the edge of the door, tongue hanging out, salivating, lust in his eyes. Men—two-legged or four, they were all the same when it came to shaking pompoms. I continued down Abercorn and tossed my head, letting my hair float out into the breeze, followed by wolf whistles from the two guys overhead working on the phone lines. All this was because I had the right car? It sure wasn’t from my two-toned roots.

  I pulled my last Snickers from my purse—one that I’d been saving for a special occasion—and very carefully, so as not to get any chocolate on the white upholstery, split it with BW. I guided the Chevy around back of Cherry House and bid the lovely Adam farewell till next time. Keeping the car idling, I opened the garage door, lugged a ladder off to the side, and dragged an old grill out of the way to make room for the newest occupant.

  I unsnapped the boot used to cover the convertible top when it was down, then carefully raised it and locked it in place. I slowly maneuvered my—least for a bit it was mine—sexmobile inside and killed the engine.

  My last car of two-plus years ago was a cute little used hatchback named Blueberry. Hollis got the Lexus because he sold real estate and he insisted he had to look successful to be successful. Blueberry got great gas mileage and was cheap to insure and a breeze to park even in the tightest of places, but in the ten minutes that it took me to drive from the police station to my house the Chevy got more attention than little ol’ Blueberry ever did. I locked the garage, and BW and I strutted ourselves inside to get the Prissy Fox ready for the day.