Demise in Denim

by Duffy Brown

  I pulled on my usual shop garb of black capris and a white blouse, clipped my hair back, and swiped on some mascara and lip gloss as BW watched me from his new favorite spot out in the hall. We went downstairs and I got the cash from the safe, also known as the rocky road ice cream container in the freezer. I transferred the money to the cash register—also known as the Godiva chocolate box sans chocolate, but it still smelled great when I made a sale.

  I flipped the lights on and turned on my little radio to WRHQWR105, the quality rock station, hoping to hear more Adam Levine. I kept the volume low as background music and then opened the front door.

  “’Bout time,” a blonde gal in Saks’ finest huffed as she and her clone bustled inside the shop. “You know how long I’ve been waiting out there on that miserable porch with the hole in the roof? Ten whole minutes. What kind of shop is this?”

  One that doesn’t open till ten and right now it’s nine thirty, I thought to myself. Not that I said that out loud, as the customer is always right . . . even if they can’t tell time or read the hours posted on the door. “Are you shopping for something in particular that I can help with?” I asked in my sweet-shop-owner voice.

  Four eyes rounded and clone one gasped, “You think we shop at a secondhand store?” They exchanged looks, sighs, and shoulder rolls all at the same time, as if rehearsed. Clone two thrust a list at me. “We’re here on business. There are a lot of men’s clothes here, nice ones. How much will I get for them, and I’ll need them sold right quick.”

  “These are good brands, but men’s clothes don’t move as fast as women’s. It will take a month, maybe two.”

  “See, Anna,” clone two said to clone one as she hitched her Prada bag up onto her shoulder. “I told you so. This isn’t going to work. You need something else to tide you over till the lawyers settle the estate and you get the money free and clear.”

  Clone one tapped her foot. “That means I’ll just have to live off the credit cards? But a girl needs cash; it’s not proper for her not to have cash in hand. What will people think if I have to fork over a credit card all the time? This is a disgrace, Bella. What am I going to do?”

  Anna? Bella? The gold-digger sisters?

  “I’m so sorry about your husband’s passing,” I offered.

  “Oh, honey,” Bella huffed. “He’s not dead . . . yet. But a girl’s got to be prepared for these things if they should come her way unexpected-like. I’m just getting affairs in order for when the time comes sooner or later.”

  “And we are so hoping and praying for the sooner part,” Anna added.

  “Fact is, we’re off to see Odilia right now on how we can hurry the situation along a bit,” Bella said.

  “He’s critical and you don’t want him to suffer?”

  “Things are critical all right, and I’m doing the suffering.” Anna tsked, her face pulling into a frown. “I cannot believe that Walker Boone person tried to convince our husbands to change their wills like he did and make our inheritance proportional to years married. Of all the nerve! What if they go and do such a thing? How dare that man stick his nose into our business? He so deserves to be behind bars.”

  Two customers came in to shop and Anna added in a low voice, “That’s why we came here to talk to you. We saw you on the morning news and realized you dislike that no-good, low-rent, middle-Georgia Boone person as much as we do. I could cut the man’s heart out with a spoon, I could, and it’s a darn shame too with him being so fine and delicious to look at. One glance at that man and a girl wants to sink her teeth into his tight little butt. So you can take the clothes, right?”

  I was still back at Boone’s butt.

  “I’ll bring the clothes over when dear Clive passes on so you can get them right out on the floor fast and sold quick-like.”

  The sisters trotted out the front door and down the sidewalk as Mercedes came in the back door. Her hair was always soft and sleek and her makeup perfect, and the peach pashmina draped around her shoulders accented her dark skin perfectly. I wanted to be Mercedes when I grew up.

  “What in the world were the gold-digger sisters doing here?” she asked. “Those two gals are not exactly the consignment-shop type.”

  “They’re inquiring about selling men’s clothes.”

  Mercedes stopped dead. “Holy Mary in heaven. Well, there you go. Those two got plans and it’s not where to spend their next anniversary. Think we should warn the poor unfortunates married to them? It only seems fitting that we do something.”

  “‘Your wife’s planning to knock you off’ may not go over too well, but they are paying a visit to Odilia right now to speed things up.” We both made the sign of the cross at the mention of the local voodoo priestess, who knew how to get the job done. Nine months ago Wanda Fleming went to Odilia because her daughter wasn’t getting pregnant. Last week she delivered triplets.

  “I knew it,” Mercedes said, slapping her palm on my checkout counter, which was actually an old green paint-chipped door I had found in the attic and laid across the backs of two chairs. “It’s like I figured all along. Anna and Bella are prime suspects in this mess with Conway, and if they’re planning on their very own husbands’ demise, doing in Conway and framing Walker for the deed is a piece of cake, don’t you think? It’s a perfect fit.”

  “They did mention Boone and it wasn’t to sing his praises, except for his butt. But how would they get hold of Boone’s .38?”

  “Honey, every woman in Savannah praises that man’s fine behind, and the fact that Mr. Walker keeps a .38 in his desk drawer is legendary. Word has it that someone used it to put a bullet right into his wood-paneled office, of all things. Do you believe that?”

  I did the big swallow. Actually I did believe it ’cause I sort of did the shooting.

  “But the reason I came over is I got news,” Mercedes said. She came around to the back of the counter and whispered, “I was fixing up Conway to ‘Stayin’ Alive,’ that being my favorite fix-up music and all. I was taking my time, making him look real good, and lo and behold if some guy didn’t barge right into the room big as you please. He pulled out a carving knife and stabbed Conway right in the heart. I mean, the man’s already dead as a post, for Pete’s sake. How much deader can he get and now I got another hole to fill in, like I didn’t have enough work from the .38 and it messed up the embalming something fierce. Some people have no consideration.”

  “‘Stayin’ Alive’?”

  “The Bee Gees.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Folk are already croaked when we get ’em, nothing much more can happen to them, right? The Slumber is not exactly a flashing-lights-and-sirens sort of establishment. We’re more into lilies and ferns and hankies and tea and cookies and ‘Doesn’t he look good for a dead guy.’ I have no idea who the man was, but I thought you needed to know we got ourselves another suspect. I mean, if the guy’s ready to kill Conway when he’s dead, I figure he could have done the deed when Conway was up and kicking. There’s pissed off, and then there’s really and truly pissed off, and stabber guy fits the second category, wanting to make sure the deed is done for real.”

  Mercedes did the impatient shuffle as I rang up a sale for the strappy sandals I’d had my eye on and the cute cross-body bag out of the display window. She waited for the woman to leave, then said to me, “I bet dollars to doughnuts that the stabbing guy will be at Conway’s funeral. You truly do need to get there and bring Miss KiKi with you; she knows everyone.”

  “I hate funerals.”

  “Honey”—Mercedes put her arm around me—“the only ones who like funerals are those who inherit the loot, the florists, and the funeral director. But the way I see it, at least we got ourselves another suspect.”

  Mercedes hustled herself off to putty Conway back together, and three customers brought clothes in to consign. I went through the stacks, selected which
items worked for the store, and then tagged and priced them and put them on the racks. By one o’clock I’d sold three skirts, two jackets, four pairs of shoes, and a really ugly coat that I thought I’d never get rid of. I also sold three black dresses thanks to Conway’s funeral. Maybe I needed to rethink my view on funerals; they weren’t so bad after all.

  I really could do with a mannequin, I decided as I assembled a new window display of skinny jeans, white sweater, and straw hat. A mannequin would look better than the hangers in the window, that’s for sure. I hung the clothes, adding a cute chair and table to complete the display look as BW ambled out the door to greet Chantilly hurrying up the walk.

  Chantilly was a true friend and once-upon-a-time UPS driver. She was now chief cook and bottle washer over at Cuisine by Rachelle, she made the best mac and cheese on earth, and she was engaged to Pillsbury, the Seventeenth Street gang doughboy. That meant she had someone to cuddle up to at night and to invest her hard-earned money, and there was always good food in the house. Chantilly was one fine cook.

  “Here’s that mac and cheese you ordered for lunch,” Chantilly said to me, setting a white paper bag on the counter. She shuffled back to the door, cutting her eyes in one direction, then the other.

  “Ordered?”

  “Just open the blasted bag.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Eat!”

  When it came to mac and cheese I didn’t have to be coaxed, like with broccoli and carrots. “Looking for someone?” I asked, since Chantilly was still standing at the door.

  The cops, she mouthed. Okay, this was getting curiouser and curiouser. I opened the bag, pulled out a spork and cup, pried off the lid, and dug into the best three-cheese combo in the city. It even had those little toasted breadcrumbs sprinkled on top and—

  “Napkin!” Chantilly yelped, pointing to the bag. “You need a napkin. Your mamma would have a hissy if she saw you not using your napkin!”

  Three customers and I stared at Chantilly as if she’d clearly lost her ever-loving mind over a napkin. The South was all about manners, but this was over-the-top etiquette even for Savannah. I put down the container and carefully plucked the napkin from the bag. I did a little shake to fluff it open, and right there in the middle was writing. Stay away from Dixon, stay out of my house, no eating in the car.

  “A mutual mac-and-cheese lover,” Chantilly offered, still gazing out the door.

  “And you’re worried that someone might be onto your message service?”

  “Crossed my mind. I think you’re supposed to take the napkin seriously.”

  I jabbed my spork at a big empty space in the hallway. “Right over there is where Conway’s dining room set and living room furniture belong. I have customers waiting to see that furniture, money in hand, and I have a big fat hole in my roof. I’m not staying out of anything. I’ll try not to eat in the car, but if I happen to drive past Sisters and BW feels a fried chicken urge coming on, I can’t deny BW, now can I?”

  “You take the bones out of the chicken?” Chantilly gave me a concerned frown.

  “Of course I take out the bones. How’d our mutual mac-and-cheese lover look?”

  “I’m just the delivery person. Pillsbury says if you get involved in this they’re going to lock you in a closet and throw away the key, and you should know you got a really dopey look on your face.”

  A customer left without buying anything as two more entered, looking at the sale rack in the front by the counter. Chantilly pulled me over to the jewelry display table and picked up a pearl brooch. “Who’s Dixon?” she asked, holding up the brooch as if to admire it.

  “You’re going to rat me out?”

  “You saved my behind when everyone thought I knocked off Simon . . . not that the jerk didn’t have it coming. So now I’m going to help you. If Pillsbury finds out what we’re up to, we’ll both be locked up in that closet.” She put down the brooch and picked up some black beaded earrings. “So who do you think pulled the trigger on Conway?”

  I picked up a matching bracelet to the earrings. “There’s a guy who knifed him after he was already dead, two sisters who don’t like him or Boone, and Boone’s brother who’s a complete jerk, though knocking off his own father seems a bit of a stretch.”

  Chantilly rolled her eyes, shook her head, and tried on a string of faux pearls that looked pretty decent considering they only cost ten bucks. “A lunatic, two women, and a ticked-off brother, is it? Walker is so screwed. Who’s Dixon?”

  “Mason Dixon, VP over at the Plantation Club. Conway was the president, and Dixon wanted the position and he owed Conway money. I know what you’re thinking, that doing in Conway gets rid of the debt and he gets the presidency. The thing is there’s no tie to Boone, and Boone was framed for a reason.”

  “Walker must have found something important about this Dixon guy or he wouldn’t have told you to steer clear. I say we need to talk to Dixon.” Chantilly took a yellow scarf to the checkout counter and I started to write up the sale. “What do you think about me going to the Plantation Club and asking about a membership?”

  I snapped my pencil. “I think we’re headed for that closet.”

  “Pillsbury’s at an accounting seminar in Atlanta; he won’t find out. The club doesn’t allow many of my particular skin tone in as members, and I have to be recommended. I dated the cook a few years back, but I don’t think that’s what they have in mind. While Dixon and everyone else is doing their best to be politically correct, that will give you a chance to poke around in his office.”

  “Boone and I tried that, and Dixon barged in on us. But it is a good idea. If I can find an IOU or something that proves Dixon owed Conway money, that might give the cops someone else to consider besides Boone.”

  “You’re right, it is a mighty good idea.” A devilish smile tripped across Chantilly’s lips. “I’ll get off for an hour tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be obnoxious and irritating. I’ll wear something slutty.”

  “I wonder how big that closet is?”

  At six I closed up the Prissy Fox. I fed BW his daily hot dog, which was now low-fat so he’d keep his manly physique. I put two scoops of Canine Cuisine in his bowl, then straightened the shop for tomorrow. I hung up clothes left in the cute little dressing room that used to be my pantry until I painted it yellow and hung a curtain in front of it. Since I’d only ever used it to house a few cans of SpaghettiOs and maybe green beans for when I had a health food attack, I really didn’t miss the space that much.

  I opened the door to let BW do his evening sniff-and-sprinkle routine. He bolted out the door like getting shot from a cannon and tore across the street. Dang! Every once in a while this happened, usually when I least expected it. What did he see: a rabbit, a squirrel, a cat? BW was on the hunt and now I had to find him, and the fact that I’d had less than four hours of sleep didn’t matter to BW one little bit.

  “Why are you staring at the street?” Auntie KiKi wanted to know as she came out the front door of Rose Gate, her lovely white-and-blue Victorian that had been in the Vanderpool family since Sherman and his buddies showed up. It was Tuesday night, canasta night, and KiKi had on her lucky tiara. KiKi killed at canasta, so I guessed the tiara worked.

  “BW is on a run after some critter.”

  “Please, Lord, do not let it be a skunk,” KiKi lamented. We exchanged looks, both remembering last month and that skunk encounter and the twenty cans of tomato juice to get rid of the odor.

  “My guess is one way or the other he’ll wind up at Boone’s house looking for a snack,” I said.

  “I’ll take Drayton and you take Lincoln and we’ll meet up at Boone’s.”

  “What about the Tuesday night canasta girls?” I pointed to the tiara.

  “We decided to call it off. Steffy Lou Adkins plays with us, and it didn’t seem right to be swilling pink margaritas and eating red velvet c
ake without her there and considering Conway’s wake is tomorrow night and all. Steffy Lou is such a sweet girl, and Conway’s passing hit her real hard. I was taking the tiara out for a spin so as not to break the lucky streak it seems to have going. Now we best get a move on before the dogcatcher snags BW and it costs you a pretty penny to get him out of jail.”

  KiKi backed the Beemer out of the drive and slowly motored down Gwinnett calling, “Here, doggie, doggie, doggie.” I got BW’s leash from inside along with Old Yeller and snatched up two hot dogs to bribe BW away from whatever got his attention in the first place. A soft warm glow settled over the city as streetlights blinked on and office lights faded to black. I searched alleys, front yards, and a few Dumpsters, but there was no sign of BW.

  I cut through Troup Square, checking the doggie fountain there, one of BW’s fave watering holes. A lot of canines were out for an evening stroll but no BW. I cut across Charlton. The big oaks shaded the street by day and filtered moonlight at night. With the cobblestones and perfectly restored old homes, the street was pretty much as it was a hundred years ago, and right there on Boone’s porch that happened to be connected to one of those lovely old homes was Auntie KiKi with BW. Guess that tiara really did have lucky powers.

  “You know,” KiKi called to me as I climbed the wrought-iron steps to the porch, “if you had a cell phone I could have told you we were here.”

  “You are a bad dog,” I said to BW, shaking my finger at him. In response he wagged his tail, sniffed at my pocket, sat, and gave me his paw. I gave him a hot dog. What can I say? I’m a puppy pushover. I clipped the leash to BW’s collar as KiKi peered into Boone’s window.

  “There’s not much to see,” I said to KiKi, knowing exactly what was inside since I’d sort of finagled my way in a few months ago. “Boone’s house is all Southern Living on the outside and college dorm on the inside. I don’t think he realizes he has a dining room.” I scooped up the junk mail overflowing from the mailbox and stuffed it in Old Yeller. “It’s like advertising to the world, No one’s home, come rob me.”