by Duffy Brown
KiKi started up the steps, then stopped, her face pulled into a frown. “How did you and Chantilly do with that Grayden Russell person over there at the inn? Did you find out anything that can help Walker?”
KiKi was already feeling poorly, and I saw no reason to add to it. “We’ve got a few leads.”
“Oh, boy. That bad?” KiKi wagged her head and continued on. “We’ll figure it out; we’re just missing something, is all. Something that ties this all together.”
I knew KiKi was right, even said the same thing when I was with Chantilly, but we were running out of time. Detective Ross might not believe Boone knocked off Conway, but it was her job and every other Savannah cop’s to bring him in. Boone was a wanted man and Savannah wasn’t that big. Sooner or later their paths would cross. Boone hadn’t left the city, I was sure of that. I could almost feel him watching everything, everybody. I could feel him watching me.
I turned off the lights, letting one burn in the living room for Uncle Putter, the soft glow filtering into the dance studio of cream stucco walls and high ceilings. Frank Sinatra sang “I’ll Be Seeing You” and I hoped there wouldn’t be big black bars between Boone and me when that happened. I closed my eyes for a moment, the music washing over me, and I let my mind wander, searching for answers.
Why kill Conway? Why frame Boone? Why had all this happened now, and where was Boone? Was he okay? I slowly opened my eyes, and there he was right in front of me. It was dark and I was tired and I wanted him to be here, so maybe he was. He took me in his arms and we danced to Frank and seeing old familiar places. I could feel Walker’s breath tease my hair, his heart beating slow and steady against mine, his warm hand at the small of my back pressing me close, his thigh brushing . . . my thigh brushing, his hand holding my hand.
We glided across the floor, the room dappled in soft shadows and moonlight. He tipped me back in a long slow dip, his mouth on mine, the heat of his lips setting me on fire as we stood there, the song fading away. I blinked my eyes open and . . . and Boone was gone. Or, was he never really here? I looked at BW. He yawned and smiled, winked, and then went back to sleep. Again, worst watchdog on the planet.
Still in a daze, I checked all the doors to make sure KiKi was locked up safe and sound. I glanced back to the dance floor one last time to see if Boone would somehow reappear. Was it a dream? Was it real? Did I need therapy? I missed him more than I thought possible.
With the help of an oatmeal cookie from KiKi’s golf ball cookie jar, I finally convinced BW that we had to return to the land of no AC. I had a window unit on the first floor to keep customers happy—nothing worse than wiggling into tight jeans with sweat slithering down your legs—but the second floor was open-windows territory and a breeze if I was lucky. The very top floor was more attic than finished house. In the dead of summer the top two floors were like an oven, but in spring it was the scent of flowers and ocean and new-cut grass.
“I have a prezzie for you,” I singsonged to BW, who was now wagging his tail as we crossed KiKi’s front yard, which butted up to mine. I opened the back door of Cherry House, went to the fridge and pulled out a little white box, and headed for the front porch, with BW’s nails tapping across the hardwood floor as he followed me. We sat together on the top step and I opened the box.
“Do you remember what today is?” I took a Chicken McNugget from the box and split it in two. I popped half in my mouth and fed the other to BW.
“One year ago you and I became BFFs. I was in a bad way and you weren’t any better. We’d both been abandoned. You were hiding under this very porch, though then there wasn’t a hole in the roof. I shared my McNuggets with you.” I broke another one in half. “I’d just opened the Prissy Fox. I needed money to keep Cherry House going and I had a closet full of designer clothes I didn’t need since Hollis the now-ex had kicked me to the curb for Cupcake the now-dead.”
BW seemed only marginally interested in my sentimental walk down memory lane. I kissed him on the snout and he gobbled a McNugget right from the box. “So here we are, just the two of us, one year later. Any chance you’ll start doing the laundry anytime soon?”
I got an eye roll, I swear I really did.
“Vacuum?”
BW chomped two nuggets right out of the box.
“Are you happy?”
This time I got a burp and a doggie head in my lap. I took that as a yes.
• • •
Morning business was brisk again, thank you, Jesus. Actually it was crazy busy with everyone in an I need a new spring wardrobe frame of mind. I had to break up a fight over a pair of blue strappy Kate Spade shoes and convince a customer that, yes, the Prada bag was real and, no, I did not sell knockoffs. I signed up two new consigners who brought in terrific clothes as a girl in her late twenties, wearing denim short-shorts, heels, and a halter top flipped a really nice wedding dress onto the counter. “I don’t want to be seeing this here thing ever again. Sell it quick and mail me the check. Harper Norton, 126 West Harris.”
“It looks brand new.” I unzipped the dress from the long plastic bag.
She flipped back her long straight hair, which had to be the very devil to keep in Savannah humidity. “It is brand new. Never been used; I’m still single.” Harper held up her hands and wiggled her fingers. “See, no ring. I couldn’t get my money back on the flowers, the cake, or the reception at the Madison. That no-count Walker Boone is their attorney, said I signed a one-week cancellation agreement and that I should just be glad I didn’t marry the creep who broke up with me at our rehearsal dinner.
“Let me tell you,” Harper went on. “All that’s easy for Boone to say. He’s not the one out all the money. Do you have any idea what a sit-down dinner with open bar costs these days, especially at a nice hotel here in town? I maxed out my credit cards and it’ll take me years to pay them off and I’m still not married!”
“I know you,” I said, giving her a long look and thankful for once I wasn’t hearing that statement. “You played the piano at Conway’s wake the other night. You’re really good, especially considering the occasion and that you were in competition with the sobbing Abbott sisters.”
“Yep, that was me all right. I play funerals, weddings, anniversaries, bar mitzvahs, happy engagements, happy divorces. Steffy Lou and I went to school together, so she hired me, bless her heart. Credit card debt is a scary thing, especially if it’s for nothing but a broken heart. Actually, the broken bank accounts bother me more.”
Harper puffed out a long breath and pulled a satin shoe from a bag. “I lost the other one or you could sell these, too. They were expensive. Maybe someone will buy this one that I have left and use it as a planter or candy dish.”
Reaching under the counter, I found the satin shoe KiKi and I got at Walker’s house and plopped it on the counter. Harper’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She looked from the shoe to BW and back to me. “Holy catfish, that was you I pushed out of the way when I dropped off the shoe at Walker Boone’s house? You know, I just planned to leave the thing on the back stoop because I was ticked and felt the need to vent. But then the door was wide open so I thought what the heck, I’ll see how the other half lives. To tell you the truth, that was a mighty disappointing experience. So, what were you doing in Boone’s house?”
“Looking for a runaway dog. Did you see anyone hanging around?” I wanted to know, hoping maybe Harper got a look at the person who dropped off the happy-family pictures.
“Nope, it was just me nosing around the place; the man doesn’t even have a decent TV and that couch is a disgrace. Anyway, when you showed up I freaked out and ran.” She turned back to the dress. “So, can you sell this blasted thing for me or what?”
“Oh my, I bet I could sell this dress in a heartbeat,” Bella said, wandering over to the counter and picking up a corner of the wedding dress. “This is lovely indeed. Vera Wang? Everyone just loves Vera. Design
er items are a big sell these days. Anything with a logo or tag gets top money even in consignment shops.”
Anna faced Harper and turned her back to me. “You could get a lot more for this dress in a more upscale shop than this one. You need to take it somewhere else.”
“Hey,” I butted in. “This is an upscale shop and I do get top dollar.”
“Like where should I take the dress?” Harper asked, totally ignoring me. “I need money.”
“Well now, you best keep your eyes open,” Anna added. “You just never know what shops are going to be popping up around here in this city. Things can change when you least expect them to.”
Harper snapped the dress off the counter and said to Bella, “Thanks for the tip, I appreciate it.” She floated off in a cloud of white chiffon, with Bella and Anna right behind her, and I saw a nice profit from the sale of a terrific wedding dress float out the door. What was that all about? I wondered.
“What was that all about?” Mamma asked, walking in and plopping a big box of food on my checkout counter.
“A lost sale that would have been really nice, and what’s with the box?”
“Lunch.” Mamma smiled and waved her hand over the contents. “A nice nutritious lunch.”
“And dinner and breakfast for a month,” I said, peeking inside. Mamma had on a new black I am the judge suit. She also had a navy scarf with tiny orange polka dots looped around her neck.
“There’s nothing but hot dogs in your fridge,” she went on. “BW is going to look like a sumo wrestler in no time if you keep it up.”
“Sumo might stand a chance, but a wrestler, never. He’s a lover, not a fighter, and those hot dogs have no nitrates and they are low fat,” I said while exchanging Mamma’s navy scarf for a cream one I had on display. Mamma was a fantastic judge, no doubt about it, sharp as they come. But she didn’t have one drop of fashion sense in her whole body. KiKi and I shared the opinion that it was indeed divine intervention from the powers above that made Mamma a judge, where black was the color of choice.
“And that’s not all BW eats,” I added, feeling like a bad dog mommy. “I feed him really expensive high-protein dog food that comes in those little silver and blue bags and it has no by-products, whatever that is.”
“And he eats it?” Mamma asked, one brow cocked in doubt.
“Of course. Sometimes.” Maybe. I rummaged through the box of apples, bananas, grapes, and avocados. Packages of ham and turkey, cheese and bread. I finally hit pay dirt; the Fig Newtons were buried in the bottom.
“You don’t have the whole story, you know,” I said with a full mouth and getting a this is my cross to bear glare from Mamma. “KiKi steals my leftovers, sees my empty fridge, then tattles to you. Think of it this way: If KiKi didn’t filch my ribs and greens in the first place, I’d have more food in the fridge than hot dogs.”
Mamma tsked. “KiKi knew you’d say that and maintains her innocence, and for your information you’re starting to sound just like a lawyer.” Mamma leaned closer. “So, have you seen one certain lawyer lately?”
If I told her that Boone had suddenly materialized at KiKi’s and we’d danced in the dark, Mamma would think I was drunk or crazy or both. “He’s close, I can feel it.”
Mamma did a little shuffle and glanced around the room as if Walker would pop out between the dresses. “You always did have good instincts, except when it came to marrying Hollis, of course. I chalk that one up to your daddy’s side of the family. A few of them have the lights on but nobody’s home, if you know what I mean. But I didn’t come here to just drop off food and discuss genetic flaws; I have inside information.”
Two customers strolled in and Mamma came around to the back of the checkout counter and faked being busy by adding the navy scarf I just took off her to a black sweater. There was no hope. “Mr. TA is contesting his daddy’s will,” she said in a hushed voice. “I heard it straight from the estate lawyer this morning over breakfast at Clary’s. TA is going for diminished capacity. That means he’s saying Daddy Dear was off his nut when he drew up the will. Can you imagine saying such a thing about your own father? And in case you doubted just how much he hates his brother, he told everyone at the grave site yesterday that he’d rot in hell before he’d let his daddy’s killer get the Old Harbor Inn.”
“Clary’s? You went to Clary’s for breakfast? I just bet you got The Elvis and how could you not bring me some? I love The Elvis.”
Mamma nudged the box. “I brought you good food.”
“Sourdough toast stuffed with peanut butter and bananas is good food.” I let out a forlorn sigh. “So, do you think TA just said all that stuff to show off in front of a crowd? I mean, he does like being front and center, even standing by an open grave with a hearse in the background.”
Mamma added an orange scarf to a red sweater, and I felt my eyes cross and heard a customer suck in a sharp breath clear across the room. “Shooting off his mouth could be part of it,” Mamma said. “Personally I’d go with good-old-fashioned greed since the inn’s a fine piece of property. The thing is everyone knows that TA inherited family money, a lot of it from what I hear. Maybe he just wants the inn because he can’t have it. The man’s like a two-year-old with a bank account and driver’s license.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to put some pieces together. “We know who gets the inn, we’ve known that for a while now. But I wonder who inherits the money? Here’s the thing, if TA is going after that person too, this isn’t just about brotherly un-love. Maybe TA’s not as well off as we all think he is? We really need to see the will, find this other person who gets the money and see if TA has been rattling their cage as well as hating our favorite lawyer. When is there a reading of the will?”
“That only happens on bad TV reruns, dear. These days the attorney files the will in probate court, then sends copies to each of the beneficiaries.”
I snagged Old Yeller from under the counter and dumped the contents onto the counter. Mamma watched in grim fascination as purse flotsam of pens, half-eaten mints, dog biscuits, three combs, a wallet, a flashlight, some rope, and three Snickers wrappers bounced across the top along with the assortment of Boone’s mail. Mamma picked up a flyer that gave five dollars off at Vinnie Van Go-Go’s pizza. She wagged her head. “Is nothing sacred?”
“Don’t know if I’d jump right to sacred, but Vinnie’s calzones are pretty freaking awesome.”
“I mean messing with someone else’s mail.” Mamma waved the flyer in the air.
“Think of it as a public service. Boone’s mailbox was stuffed full and spilling out all over his porch, and we collected it so the place didn’t look unoccupied like no one was home for days, but actually we were too late because someone was already there and—”
Mamma eyes widened. “We?”
“Let’s go with me and BW taking a night walk and winding up at Boone’s house. But this mail isn’t really mail—I mean look at it, it’s nothing but ads,” I said, hurrying on to avoid more questions. “There’s nothing like a bill or bank statement, and there’s no big thick here is the will envelope. Where the heck could it be?”
“Let’s see,” Mamma said, pairing green earrings with a purple necklace so it looked like we were doing work. “The funeral was yesterday, so out of respect I’m guessing the lawyers waited till this morning to file the will over at the courthouse. Copies of it will probably be sent out to the beneficiaries by courier this afternoon.”
“But the courier won’t go to Boone’s house,” I said, looking at the pile in front of me. “Where do you think Boone’s real mail is? Where does he have that delivered?”
“His office,” Mamma and I said together. “Dinky can sign for the envelope,” I added. “Then we can get it from her. Dinky and I are friends.”
Mamma shook her head. “Doesn’t matter if you two are joined at the hip, dear. Dinky can’t sign for the envelope
; she’s not Walker, and as we know he’s MIA at the moment. No Walker, no will; the courier will simply take it back to the estate attorney and try again at a later date. The law is pretty specific on how wills are handled.”
“Or maybe Boone’s not really MIA after all,” I said, feeling a lightbulb moment coming on. “Maybe Boone’s right in his office and just a little shorter now and doesn’t have facial hair and he’s blond.”
“Blond?”
“I bet Boone would look great blond, and maybe he’s wearing a hat. A hat would help. What do you think? It worked pretty good last time I tried it.” I scooped everything back into Old Yeller. “Quick, call KiKi and tell her to watch the shop.”
“What if she has a dance lesson?”
“Tell her to teach it over here. Everyone will love it, a little hip-hop while they shop; it even rhymes and there’s enough room right here in the hallway.”
Mamma rubbed her forehead. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”
I grabbed a men’s suit off the rack, along with a shirt, a tie, and a brown straw fedora I’d just taken in. “Put your hands over your eyes, Mamma, you don’t want to get involved in this. You are a judge, after all.”
Mamma took my hand. She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, her eyes softening. “Grandma Hilly cleaned offices down at the courthouse for years; we were friends. If our roles were reversed I’d like to think she’d keep an eye on you and lend a hand. We’ll meet up tonight at Jen’s and Friends and you can tell me how things go. Try not to get arrested and if you do, dear, don’t admit to anything. That diminished-capacity idea might not work for Conway, but you trying to pass yourself off as Walker Boone fits the bill pretty well.”
Chapter Nine
I PARKED the Chevy, snagged the suit, shirt, and fedora out of the backseat, and locked the car. I took off in a dead run for Boone’s office, the suit streaming behind me like a kite. It was already after noon and the envelope with Conway’s last will and testament might be delivered anytime now.