Demise in Denim

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Demise in Denim Page 22

by Duffy Brown


  “Ta-da.” Dinky spread her arms wide over her new home. “The red and the green look great together, and the antique desk set fits the vintage décor of the house.” She slid into her chair looking like she owned the place. “I’ll piggyback onto Miss KiKi’s Wi-Fi—we’ll have to get her password—and once I get a landline in here for faxing, this will be a really great office.”

  “You know that other dead body I mentioned when you stopped me, there might be one after all.”

  “Really?”

  “You never know. This is my checkout area.”

  “Checkout what?” Dinky glanced around the empty shop.

  “When I had customers this was where I checked them out.”

  “And when that happens we’ll talk relocation. Now let’s charge up the espresso machine and get to work.”

  I muscled the espresso machine into the kitchen, then did what every woman did when she got herself into a mess she didn’t know how to get out of: whined to a friend. I slipped out my back door and right into KiKi’s back door.

  “Save me.” I plopped down into a chair at the oak table and banged my head on top.

  KiKi turned off the mixer where she was undoubtedly making something totally delish and sat down across from me. “You’ll have to be more specific, dear. Save you from murderers, Deckard, no business, Walker when he finds out about the Chevy?”

  “All of them except the Chevy one. Boone already knows. Dinky’s commandeered my checkout counter as her office, and I can’t stop her because I have no reason to. I don’t have any business and the only potential business I’ve had all morning was people trying to buy her really nice office stuff. I can’t compete with Anna and Bella’s Boutique.”

  “It’s just like Cher used to say to us when we were on the road in that big tour bus of hers eating salt and vinegar chips, all of us need to invent ourselves.”

  “I did that, I invented the Prissy Fox.”

  “Well, Prissy something else. You said people tried to buy Dinky’s furniture, and you have the furniture at Conway’s house lined up, and I have an attic full of Lord-knows-what and I bet your mamma does, too.”

  “I’m not selling the family wares because I’m in a funk, but . . . but the furniture angle might work.” I grabbed an oatmeal cookie from the golf ball cookie jar. “I can sell my bed frame and dresser and maybe Boone’s leather couch.”

  “Honey, we’ve got enough dead bodies around here, we don’t need to be adding yours to the heap. Men got a thing about their golf clubs, their couches, and their remotes. Best to leave them be.”

  “Mind if I use your computer to make up flyers and pass them out?” I asked around a mouthful of crumbs.

  KiKi gave me a toothy grin as a shiver of doom slid down my spine. “The Shakin’ Seniors are on their way here as we speak, and Melvin Pettigrew’s been asking about my cute little niece. I can do those flyers in lemon yellow or electric green, what do you think?”

  An hour and fifteen minutes later BW and I hobbled our way—actually I was doing the hobbling; BW was in the pink of health—down Abercorn. I put lemon-yellow flyers about the joys of consigning furniture on billboards, on phone poles, and in shop windows if I begged and pleaded with the proprietor and offered him or her a 10 percent discount.

  I tried to hit places where the locals congregated, like Jen’s and Friends, Pinky Masters, Blue Moon Brewers, and the CVS. By the time I got to Bay Street I was almost out of flyers and pretty much in tourist territory, but there were hotels and inns here updating on a regular basis that might be looking for a place to sell that slightly worn club chair or nightstand. And besides, I was a breath away from the Old Harbor Inn and Grayden Russell. He and Harper must have run into each other. He hadn’t had any qualms about me in the water; he would knock off Harper without batting an eye if she had some juicy dirt on him.

  BW and I cut through Emmet Park, the Spanish moss floating lazily in the breeze. We took Factor’s Walk down to the inn. Grayden Russell was getting into his sports car, top down, luggage in the back. “Going somewhere?” To blazes, if I had any say in the matter.

  “You’re like a bad penny,” Russell sneered. “You keep showing up, and this time you have your mutt. Hear you were at Boone’s office with that dead girl. Too bad you lived to tell about it.”

  “Harper Norton—she worked here. Did you knock her off because she found out you torched the Tybee Theater?”

  “Prove it.”

  “Maybe Harper could, and that’s why she’s dead. Or maybe she knew about your gambling and that you cheated Mason Dixon so he’d be in debt to you and do your dirty work. You seem awfully lucky and Dixon seems awfully unlucky.”

  “It’s the way the cards fall, and you better watch your mouth. You saw Harper; you know what happens to people who don’t.”

  Russell took a step closer. “I’ve just about got the Tybee Theater in my pocket. That Steffy Lou gal can’t come up with the cash and I can. Do anything to jeopardize that and it’ll be the last thing you do, got it?”

  “What about the inn? Got your grimy hands on that, too?”

  “The inn’s history. I’m done with this place. Between murders and wills the place will never be free. It looks like Tucker Adkins will wind up with it, but how long will it be tied up in courts? They still don’t have Boone and I need to move now. Cheers, chickie.”

  Russell got in his car and cranked the engine. I pulled BW to the side to get out of the way as Russell roared off. Lamar strolled over, the three of us now staring as Russell squealed around the bend.

  “Well, good riddance,” Lamar said while patting BW. “Though I got to admit I did get one decent tip out of that guy.”

  “He really is leaving?”

  “Checked out fifteen minutes ago. I pity the staff at the Savannah River Inn. That’s where he said to forward his mail and contacts; he just up and left without any warning. We’re having a little celebration dinner in the breakfast room tonight. Chantilly’s doing the catering. Darn shame about Harper. She sure could play the piano, and she and Mrs. Adkins were trying to save the theater out there on Tybee. They said if it worked out I could valet for them when they had productions. Now it looks like Russell’s going to get the place after all the work those two put into it.”

  “Did you ever see Harper with anyone else here? Were she and Russell friends?”

  “Never saw them together, but I’m outside mostly. I don’t believe Mr. Boone killed her like they say, and I don’t believe the two of them were getting it on. Mr. Boone wouldn’t do you that way. He’s a righteous dude.” Lamar hurried off to help a guest pulling up to the inn, and BW and I headed for home. Russell was no longer interested in buying the inn? Where did that come from? And if he and Tucker were in cahoots, Tucker had to be spitting nails this very minute. The man was desperate for money, and his salvation had just hightailed it over to the Savannah River Inn.

  “There you are,” Dinky said as BW and I ambled inside. She nodded at a chest of drawers, two wingback chairs, and two white floor lamps in the hall. “A lady dropped them off and I took her information and wrote her a receipt and said you would be in touch. Wouldn’t be legal to take her things without a receipt. What’s this all about?”

  “Having running water and electricity, thank you, Jesus, and . . .” I looked at the info sheet “Thank you, Daphne Weeks.” I kissed the lamps. “I never expected such a fast turnaround. I can’t compete with the new boutique.”

  “Girl, no one can compete with that place,” Dinky tossed in.

  “So I’m trying furniture, decent, usable, gently worn. Not antiques, I know nothing about antiques, but I know a rickety chair from a sound one and oak from cherry.”

  Dinky slapped me on the back. “Well, there you go, and I’ll take those two chairs for my family room. Got to do something to spruce up that place and get the attention off my husband�
�s leather couch that he won’t get rid of.”

  Dinky helped me stage the furniture in the dining room, putting the floor lamps on either side to light up the place. We pulled the clothes that weren’t very stylish and tossed them into the hall to donate, then shoved the nicer clothes to one side so it looked like a cute closet.

  After Dinky left at five to go to her own home of baby Boomer plus husband, I dismantled my bed. I put the mattress on the floor and slid the four-poster that Hollis had left behind down the steps. I did the same with the dresser: dumped all my clothes on the floor, then pushed the dresser to the steps. I angled it down like a giant sled. The fact that I didn’t get squashed at the bottom was a freaking miracle.

  I took the curtains from my bedroom too, and put them at the dining room window and tied them back with a yellow scarf, making the room look homey. I turned on the chandelier that had been with the house forever, and the light danced on the ceiling and walls. It was late and I was beat, especially after no sleep the night before followed by two shots of vodka, but the fear of being broke and living in one of Anna and Bella’s cardboard boxes on the banks of the Savannah River spurred me on.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked BW, as the two of us sat on the steps eating a granola bar. He barked and wagged his tail, and “Not bad” came from the top of the steps. I jerked around to see Boone smiling down at us.

  “Holy Christmas, are you trying to wind up in jail?” I asked in a loud whisper as Boone trotted down the steps.

  “Your bedroom is trashed.”

  I turned off the chandelier to offer a bit of privacy; the only lights left on were the two floor lamps just brought in. “Anna and Bella’s Boutique ran me out of the clothing business,” I explained to Boone. “Least temporarily, so now I’m in the used-furniture business. Wanna donate your couch?”

  “Hands off the couch, blondie.” Boone added a weak smile, but his eyes were sunk deep, his face lined with fatigue, his sweatshirt filthy, jeans ripped and torn. He draped an arm around me and I snuggled close as we sat back on the steps. “Sorry about leaving you with a dead body and Deckard,” he said. “I had no idea he’d show up.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’ve been worse,” Boone said, but somehow I doubted it.

  “Why are you here? Look,” I said, coming to my senses. “You have to leave. Deckard could show up any minute. He’s like the Black Plague infecting our lives.”

  Boone still didn’t budge, his eyes serious as he looked into mine. “I know what the cops say about me and Harper, and I wanted you to know it’s not true.”

  “Did you ever call her blondie?”

  “Of course not.”

  “There, case closed. Now go.”

  “You believe me, right?”

  “Of course. I know you. I know you as an enemy and as a friend and a fugitive on the run and . . .” I swallowed. “And whatever we are now. You’re a righteous dude, Walker Boone.” Then I kissed him, his mouth hot and hungry against mine. His fingers wound into my hair, his hand firm against my back. I could feel him breathe and it felt wonderful having him here with me even if it was just for a few minutes.

  “You have to go,” I whispered against his lips. Using every ounce of willpower I possessed, I pushed myself away and stood gazing down at him, my heart tight in my chest. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

  “You too, blondie.” He gave me another smile, this one coming all the way from his heart. Then I took Boone’s arm, pulled him up, shoved him toward the back door, and froze. I did the shh sign across my lips. I swear if someone hadn’t invented that sign we’d all be dead.

  “Deckard,” I whispered, pointing to a shadowy figure passing by the rear dining room window.

  “Is the back door locked?”

  “I was busy.”

  Think, Reagan, think! I snatched a coat from the donate pile that Dinky and I had assembled and tossed it around Boone because no way would it fit him. He stared at me wide-eyed as I wrapped three scarves around his neck, covering his chin and draping down his front. I added a floppy hat, then shoved a big pink purse that I had no idea why I took to consign in the first place at him. Boone’s pants and shoes wouldn’t fool a woman, but Deckard was no woman, he was just a slimy creep.

  “This worked before,” I whispered to Boone, then shoved him into the display window next to Gwendolyn, positioned his arms mannequin-like, tossed a scarf around his shoes to hide them, and then sat back on the steps, heart pounding, as Deckard strolled into the hallway.

  “You’re not allowed to come into my house like this, you know,” I said to Deckard, my voice wobbly and my legs shaking.

  Deckard’s teeth flashed against the dim light and he flipped on the dining room chandelier, the brightness stretching out into the hall. “I am if I think there’s illegal activity going on.”

  Deckard prowled his way around the furniture I’d just assembled. He paused in front of the closet Dinky and I had arranged and yanked the clothes apart, hangers flying out into the air.

  “Running a consignment shop isn’t exactly illegal,” I said as Deckard ambled my way. “My permits are up to date, I have insurance, and I pay my taxes.”

  Deckard stopped by Dinky’s desk, which was way too close to the display window. I needed a distraction; I needed to keep Deckard focused on me and not looking around. Maybe if I acted a little crazy or maybe afraid, anything to keep his attention away from the blasted display window.

  “Your office?” Deckard asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s that chick’s who works for Boone, I recognize that flower stapler piece of crap. You’re just one big happy family here, aren’t you?” Deckard’s eyes went to thin slits, his jaw set. “So where is he?”

  “Where’s who?”

  Deckard started toward me and BW’s back arched, his tail stiff, eyes glowing, and he growled deep in his doggie throat.

  Deckard stopped. “I should shoot that dog.”

  My back arched, my eyes glowed, and I growled, and it was not acting at all, just pure gut reaction. “Bad things happen to people who shoot dogs, Officer Deckard.”

  His lip curled. “You’re threatening me, blondie?”

  “Bad things happen to people who shoot dogs. They can be walking along and just keel over, and lo and behold if someone didn’t poison their doughnut or their coffee or put a rattlesnake in their car, a scorpion in their bed. Maybe someone just throws the jackass in the river and no one ever finds him again. Bad things happen to people who kill dogs.”

  Deckard didn’t move a muscle for a full minute, my eyes not leaving his. “You’re a scary person, Reagan Summerside.”

  “No one messes with my family.”

  “Does Boone know what he’s getting himself into?”

  “Get out of my house.”

  Deckard turned and headed for the kitchen. He disappeared around the corner and I heard the door click shut, and then Deckard’s shadow passed by the dining room window. “Well done, Reagan Summerside,” Boone said from the display window, not daring to move a hair just yet.

  “The bastard threatened our dog.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I TURNED off the chandelier, then peeked around Boone and gazed out into the dark. Cones of streetlight dotted the sidewalks; porch lights were like a string of pearls running down Gwinnett. “Think he’ll be back?” I asked Boone, still in the display window.

  “Not tonight, but the next time he shows up he’ll be playing for keeps and it won’t be pretty. You pissed him off.”

  “The feeling’s mutual.”

  Boone slowly backed up, then hopped out of the window and flattened himself against the wall. “In case you have nosy neighbors.”

  “In case?” That brought a smile. “All I have are nosy neighbors; the good part is they like you better than they like me. I�
��m the one who lets BW get away and poop in their flower beds.”

  Boone snagged me around the waist and brought me to him hard, his dark mysterious eyes gazing down at me. He smoothed back my hair and planted a kiss on my forehead.

  “That’s the best you got?”

  His eyes went coal black. “What I got we can’t start now.”

  “You’re not going to jail.”

  “It’s not looking too good right now and . . . and if things don’t get better . . . like you said, I’m not going to jail.”

  “Take me with you.”

  He smiled the way only Boone can, with a soft gleam in his eyes that bordered on devilment. “And then I’d have to take your mamma, Auntie KiKi, BW, and probably even the Abbott sisters.”

  “No Chantilly or Mercedes?”

  “Yeah, Chantilly and Mercedes, too.” Then he kissed me again, hard and fast and a bit desperate. He took my hand and headed for the kitchen, not exactly the room of the house I was hoping for.

  “What are we doing?”

  “Eating. I’m starved and you have ham and cheese and whole-wheat bread and an avocado. I love avocados when they’re perfectly ripe and—”

  “Waitaminute.” I yanked Boone to a stop right there in the hallway. “You know what’s in my fridge? You’re the one who filled my fridge, and you’re the one who ate most of the food Mamma dropped off.”

  I parked my hands on my hips, bits and pieces falling together. “How did you get out of my bathroom when Deckard came calling, and why is BW always sleeping in the hallway? You’re . . . you’re living here!”

  “Sometimes.” I gave him the bite me look. “Most of the time.”

  “And you never told me, and I was worried where you were and—”

  “You were worried?” He tried to kiss me.

 

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