Demise in Denim

by Duffy Brown

  “So, what do you think?” KiKi asked once we got back on the road.

  “That Boone’s in one sorry state of affairs with everyone out gunning for him, and that Tucker’s burned through a ton of money. I’m sure our friendly night guard is bound to tell Tucker we were out here looking around. Tucker’s going to know we’re onto him needing money, and that sets him up as killing Conway and framing Boone.”

  “I suppose we’ve still got Anna and Bella to consider, but do you really believe they’d do in Conway and frame Boone because of some advice over wills and inheritance?” KiKi said as the Batmobile motored through the night.

  “All I know is Anna and Bella opened that consignment boutique; where’d that money come from, huh? If they buried C and C somewhere or tossed them overboard, the girls could draw on the bank accounts no questions asked. Kind of the best of all worlds, and where’d you get those cute sneakers?”

  “What cute sneakers?”

  “The ones on your feet.” Even in the dark I could see patches of guilty red on KiKi’s cheeks. “I don’t believe it, you shopped at Anna and Bella’s? How could you? They’re ruining me.”

  “It’s not my fault, I swear.” KiKi held up her hand as if taking an oath. “The shoes were sitting there in the front window of that cute little shop they have and calling . . . buy me, KiKi, buy me. What’s a woman to do?”

  “What else called out to you?”

  “My lips are sealed.” KiKi housed the Beemer and I cut across to my humble abode that I loved with all my heart. I loved the paint-chipped door, the original glass in the display window that now showcased the adorable Gwendolyn. I even loved the hole in the porch roof and the weeds in the front yard. I’d rescued it from Hollis, opened a business, and it was all mine . . . but for how long? How was I going to compete against an all-designer consignment shop at such cheap prices?

  Feeling lower than a flat frog in a dry well, as Auntie KiKi would say, I went inside to puppy whines of yippee, you’re home. That should make me feel better, right? Except if things didn’t improve in the very near future, BW and I were homeless.

  “What kind of dog mommy am I?” I asked BW as we headed for the fridge. “I have two, just two, hot dogs left in there and the electric bill’s due and there’s the hole in the porch roof to contend with. I think I have an apple and orange from care package by Mamma and somehow we gobbled through all that food quick. Okay, I did the gobbling and I swear I don’t remember eating half of it.”

  I opened the fridge, and BW and I gasped. “It’s full.”

  BW barked.

  “We have cottage cheese, tomatoes, some other veggies in the veggie drawer. I forgot we had a veggie drawer. We have grapes and apples and sliced turkey and whole-wheat bread, and Lord be praised, we have hot dogs. They’re organic beef uncured hot dogs, and I have no idea how such things can taste any good, but they’re the right shape.”

  I slid one from the package, popped it in the nuker, and blasted it for a minute in case that uncured part meant uncooked.

  I chopped the hot dog, which smelled pretty darn good, into bite-size pieces and tasted one to make sure I wasn’t poisoning my BFF, not to mention I was starving. “Not bad,” I assured BW, and resisted taking another chunk of hot dog for myself.

  I put the plate on the floor and dished out cottage cheese and tomato for me and made a turkey sandwich. I hoisted myself up onto my chipped yellow Formica counter. I dug into my dinner feeling sadder by the bite, thinking how few of these dinners I had left. It was always good to have a plan B in life for when plan A failed. The consignment shop was my plan B. Now what was I going to do?

  By two A.M. and after a lot of tossing and turning and even an apple and peanut butter snack that was nowhere as good as a doughnut, I still couldn’t sleep. Maybe a run would help me feel better. Deep down I knew it wouldn’t help at all; I’d just be sore and achy and probably pull something, but at least I’d be skinnier, I hoped.

  I yanked on shorts, T-shirt, and gym shoes as fast as I could so I wouldn’t have time to change my mind, and then BW and I took off. If I had to run, he had to run. We were in this together. Plus it was two A.M. and I was lonely. We headed up Habersham, as the soft glow of the old wrought-iron lights cast the city in creams and gold. “We need to do this more often,” I said to BW. “I don’t feel so bad. Exercise is terrific.”

  We passed Whitfield Square with the gazebo lovely in the moonlight, and I slowed down a bit, well maybe more than a bit, but I was only limping a little. When we got to Troup Square, I let BW get a long, long drink at the doggie fountain while trying to convince myself this really was great and I wasn’t really dying.

  I hobbled past the police station. Deckard’s truck was in the back parking lot. I doubted the man had a home; if he did, it was probably under a rock. Huffing, puffing, and sweating like a roasted pig, I hobbled into Madison Square and dropped down onto a bench. I was having a near-death experience, I was sure of it. I saw the tunnel with the light at the end. Actually it was headlights coming down Habersham, but close enough. BW looked fit and ready for more. “You have four legs,” I explained to him between gulps for air. “I only have two.”

  I sat up, my heart settling back into my chest at the slower-than-jackhammer rate it was at before. The illuminated fountain in the center of the square bubbled over, cascading into the basin below, adding to a sense of peace and contentment. Two late-night lovers ambled past holding hands. They stopped and kissed and she snuggled into his shoulder, and I wondered if I’d ever be with Boone again.

  “Do you think Boone got his hair cut?” I asked BW. “Do you think he has clean clothes, and where do you think he’s been sleeping, and it better be alone if he knows what’s good for him, and do you think he misses us as much as we miss him?”

  BW yawned and lay down at my feet. “You know, no one else calls me cookie or blondie or shop girl. Not exactly terms of endearment, I’ll give you that, but Boone’s usually trying to tick me off so I stay away from a case and get out of harm’s way. Not that it ever works, but he does try. That’s kind of sweet even if he does drive me crazy, and truth be told maybe I drive him a little crazy, too.”

  I sighed and gazed over at Boone’s office, feeling lonely and depressed. “Things aren’t as dire as before,” I said, trying to reassure BW. “Russell and/or Tucker had motives to kill Conway and frame Walker, so that’s good, but I need something to tie them to the scene of the crime or even stealing Boone’s gun and . . . and . . . That little yellow-and-blue light in Boone’s office window isn’t on, and neither is his porch light.”

  BW looked up at me. “I know,” I answered. “They’re always on, probably even connected to a timer. You think I’m being paranoid?”

  BW put his big doggie head on my leg. “Yeah, I’m worried too, so here’s what we’ll do,” I said as I petted his silky snout. There might be trouble and BW needed to know what was going on. “If the door’s locked and we don’t hear any commotion inside, we’ll know all’s well and we can head for home and maybe stop at Parkers for one oatmeal-and-raisin cookie. One can’t hurt, plus we get grain and fruit, and I think that’s part of that food pyramid thing. But you need to cowboy up a bit in case there is someone in there, okay? You’re my only backup and Old Yeller’s back at the ranch.”

  BW sat, hiked his leg, and licked himself. We all prepare for battle in our own way. We crossed East President Street, nearly deserted this time of night, and took the stone steps up to the office, BW’s nails tapping on the hard surface.

  “Please don’t open, please don’t open, please don’t open,” I chanted as I turned the brass doorknob. The white door with frosted panes swung wide, not a sound inside. Faint rays of moonlight drifted in from Boone’s office and spilled across Dinky’s desk.

  I fumbled for the light and switched it on to find papers, Dinky’s flowered stapler, and her computer on the floor, and
chairs overturned. Gazing at the mess, I let go of BW’s leash, and he beelined straight into Boone’s office, stopping by his desk. “He’s not here, but I really wish he were,” I said to BW as I went into the office and switched on Boone’s desk light.

  “Watch what you wish for, blondie,” Boone said, hunkered down on the floor. And that would have been just fine except for the fact that Harper Norton was on the floor in front of him facedown with Boone’s silver letter opener in her back.

  I gasped and jumped backward.

  “I saw you in the square,” Boone said to me. “I hoped you wouldn’t come over.”

  “What the . . . How did you . . . Holy crap!”

  “Someone let me know that the lights were out here, and I knew something was up,” Boone said.

  “And they were right,” Deckard said from the doorway, his gun drawn. He came inside, his hulking profile silhouetted in the dimly lit office. “Put your hands behind your head,” he said to Boone. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this. Now you got two murders to answer for.”

  “Waitaminute,” I said, my brain starting to function beyond yikes, there’s a dead person in the room! “You can’t believe Boone did this.”

  “His office, his letter opener, and I’m guessing his fingerprints. Yeah, I’d say he’s the killer all right. This woman probably had proof Boone here killed Conway, and he had to shut her up.”

  “In his own office?” I tried to reason. “How did he get her here? Why would he get her here? This makes no sense, Deckard, think about it.”

  “A desperate man doing desperate things, it happens all the time and I don’t have to think about anything, I just need to bring this killer in.”

  “But he’s innocent.”

  A smile pulled at Boone’s lips. “I appreciate the support, blondie, but I really can talk for myself.”

  I parked my hands on my hips. “This is not your fight, it’s my fight, and I’m fed up with this . . . this lunatic following me around.”

  Deckard sneered as sirens headed our way. “I knew if I tailed you long enough you’d lead me to Boone, and I’ll be darned, it looks like I was right on the money. Nice work, blondie.”

  Red flashed in front of my eyes, I swear it really did.

  “Get him,” I yelled at BW.

  Deckard laughed deep in his throat. “That dumb dog doesn’t do anything but eat and poop, everybody knows that.”

  In a flash all four paws left the ground and big growling dog plus big shiny snarling teeth sprang for Deckard, the moral being never ever kick a dog and think you’ll get away with it.

  I lunged for Deckard along with BW, both of us sending Deckard flat on his back and his gun skittering across the floor.

  “Run!” I yelled to Boone.

  He hesitated for a split second, our gazes locking. “Good God, go!”

  Boone jumped up and gave Deckard a solid right hook to the jaw along with, “Never call her blondie.” Then he tore out the door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “YOU’RE going to pay for this,” Deckard bellowed, shoving me to the side and struggling to his feet, as sirens approached. “That dog bit me! I’m having him put down. He’s history, you’re history.”

  “What dog?” I panted, amazed I was so calm. Then again, after gators, snakes, a fire, and being on the road with NASCAR KiKi, I was a seasoned veteran of chaos and crazy.

  I sat up and tried to catch my breath. “I didn’t see any dog. I was here, you were here, you tripped over poor Harper Norton who is unfortunately also here, and you knocked me to the ground. You hit your jaw and I bet the forensic people are going to be totally pissed you screwed up their crime scene by falling all over it; at least they would be ticked off if this happened on a TV show.”

  Ross bolted into the room, two uniforms behind her. She had on jeans and a sweatshirt, and a shirttail of Mickey Mouse jammies stuck out from under the sweatshirt. “What in the world is going on that can’t wait till morning?”

  I pointed to Harper, and Deckard bellowed, “Boone was here, right in this room, and Reagan Summerside and her stupid dog attacked me and Boone got away.”

  “What dog?” I held out my hands and did the crazy-man eye roll. “I went for a run and noticed the lights were off in Boone’s office and they are never off, and I came to investigate because I’m a good Savannah citizen doing my duty. I found Harper Norton on the floor.” I made the sign of the cross and meant it. I didn’t know what Harper was involved in, but she sure didn’t deserve a knife in the back.

  “Then the concerned and ever-vigilant Officer Deckard rushed in to save the day,” I continued. “He tripped over the body and hit his chin.” I stared at his face. “You’re going to have a dandy bruise there, buddy. Knock any teeth loose?”

  Ross looked me in the eyes, then let out a long sigh. “You can really say all that with a straight face and not be freaking out?”

  “It’s been a rough week; I think I used up all my freak.” I wobbled to my feet and stood beside Deckard. “How could little old me possibly overpower this guy? He’s got six inches and about a hundred pounds on me.”

  “I keep telling you, there was a dog who went at me,” Deckard roared. He held out his shredded jacket sleeve. “How do you explain this?”

  “Must have been some other dog.” I did crazy-man eye roll part two.

  “I want her locked up for obstruction of justice,” Deckard roared again. “And I want her dog locked up and I want Walker Boone.”

  “What dog?” And maybe I should have left out that last what dog comment because ten minutes later I was sitting in the Bull Street police station and was back in the way-too-familiar putrid-green interrogation room. The only upside was that this time after jogging my guts out I smelled even worse than my surroundings.

  Ross came in and sat down across from me. “You just had to poke the bear, didn’t you?” She put her hand over the microphone sitting on the table. “Not that he doesn’t deserve poking, but do you have to do it at three A.M.? You’re not the only one who’s had a rough week.”

  “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Only if being a smartass is a crime or if one more of the cops on duty here trips over himself ogling you. Short-shorts in the middle of the night?”

  “I was exercising and people laugh when I wear red-and-white stripes.”

  “You’re off the hook this time. Boone’s fingerprints are on that letter opener, not yours, and you overpowering Deckard is a little tough to swallow, and the only thing I’ve ever seen BW attack is a hot dog, so Deckard is lying his heart out to save face. But we need to talk.”

  “Got a doughnut sitting around?”

  “Does the wild bear . . . ?” Ross winked; I followed her to her desk and took a seat, and she opened a desk drawer that looked like the Cakery Bakery’s annex. “A cop’s got to do what a cop’s got to do.”

  I told Ross my great Tucker/Russell theory involving Conway, Boone, and the inn. And the best part was I only ate half the doughnut. “Those two have motive and opportunity,” I told Ross. “But I don’t have any actual proof that ties either of those guys to Conway’s murder.”

  “Contrary to popular belief and the evidence in front of you, the police do more than eat unhealthy food and write parking tickets. We think we have enough to indict Dixon on blackmail. We matched up his deposits and Conway’s withdrawals, and he had pictures of Conway and Walker Boone and his mom taped to the bottom of his desk drawer. He also had a .38, but it’s registered and who around here doesn’t have a .38? Grayden Russell has applied for large-boat docking privileges down on River Street and a gambling permit, so we know why he’s after the Old Harbor Inn and the Tybee Theater. He’s in the gaming business. What do you know about Harper Norton?”

  “She’s friends with Steffy Lou, they went to school together, and they worked on saving the Tybee T
heater. She’s in a big hurt for money. I have no idea why she was at Boone’s office. She didn’t like the guy at all, but he’s wanted for murder, so what more can she do to him?”

  “They found her phone under her. 9-1 was punched in; she never got to the other 1.”

  “So what do you think she was she doing at Boone’s office?”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Boone’s accused of murdering her; what more isn’t there to like?”

  “We think Walker and Harper Norton were lovers. He has to be staying somewhere, and he was staying with her on and off. She probably did her best to convince everyone they were enemies, like you did with the reporters and on the TV show thing. There was no evidence of breaking and entering into Walker’s office, meaning he let her in for another little rendezvous but she decided that ten grand was better than Walker in the sack and tried to turn him in, and he killed her. You just happened in on him before he could get rid of the body.”

  “They’re lovers?”

  “Got a better idea? Why else was she there with Boone? How did she get in? Who else would kill her?”

  “They’re lovers?”

  “We all like Walker, but his dad screwed him over big-time, and revenge is a powerful reason for murder. We got Boone’s gun killing Conway and now a dead woman ready to call 911 and Boone standing over her, his letter opener in her back. You do the math.”

  “Tucker knew Harper,” I said, trying to get beyond the lover idea. “Maybe she had the goods on him for killing Conway. And there are two sisters, Anna and Bella, who married rich old guys. Conway and Boone both advised the husbands to change their wills, and Harper planned on screwing their business. Any of them wanted to get rid of her.”

  “Except Harper was in Boone’s office with Boone, there was no forced entry, and she was killed with his letter opener. It’s a slam dunk.”