by Duffy Brown
I pounded again but the blinds stayed shut, curtains drawn, and no footsteps scurried around inside to let me in. My guess was that the sisters were still sleeping with their hearing aids parked on their bedside tables. I tried the door but it was locked. Running out of time, I put the dead-body situation on the back burner and went with Plan B: getting Willie Fishbine’s stuff from Sleepy Pines. I had to get there and back by ten to open the Fox on time, not that there’d been much to open to lately with business being in the toilet.
Being a public-transportation kind of girl, I could sense deep familiar motor rumblings a few streets over. I’d never make it to the official bus stop in time to catch the hydrocarbon express, so I took off in a dead run for Abercorn to head it off. Chancing life and limb, I stood in the middle of the street and waved my arms like a castaway on a deserted island. Cars honked, swerved, and gave me a good-morning salute that didn’t mean anything good at all. A car would certainly have made this retrieval of salable items a lot easier—except a car, like a cell phone, was not in the current budget. Electricity and running water were barely in the budget.
I waved harder, the bus getting closer and closer still. This kind of thing didn’t happen when I had BW with me. Earlene would never run down a woman with a dog, but a woman alone trying to ride the bus and not at an official stop was obviously target practice. I started to jump to the curb when Earlene slammed on the brakes. She glared down from her perch on high and gave me the “You are one crazy white girl” look.
“Were you aiming for me?” I griped as I hopped on.
“Maybe a little.”
I dug the bus fare out of Old Yeller and Earlene hit the gas. “But I thought we were friends,” I said as I staggered to the seat across from the driver. “I’m the one who fixed you up with Big Joey, remember? That means you’re in a relationship with the most kickass dude in Savannah, and you have me to thank for it.”
“We done broke up,” Earlene grumbled as the bus growled forward. “And it’s all your fault, yours and Walker’s. Now that I think about it, I should have run you down when I had the chance. You had it coming.”
“You and Big Joey were doing great.”
“Is this here the face of a woman doing great?” Her lower lip stuck out in a pout and her brows knit together in one long ticked-off line. “It’s you and Walker and that c word that’s done me in.”
“C as in cute couple?” That’s two words, of course, but I couldn’t resist.
“The word’s committed, as in going to the next step in your relationship and getting yourself engaged.” Earlene pulled to the curb for two passengers and said to me, “Now my man’s feeling the pressure and I’m being demoted to his friend zone. Someplace no girlfriend wants to be, I can tell you that.” Earlene adjusted her blue uniform cap and started up. “Not that I’ve said one word to him about that commitment thing you and Boone have going on. Nuh-uh, not me. Fact is, now that I think about it, I’m happy as a bug in a rug being a single woman right here in the fine city of Savannah.”
“Is that a Brides magazine tucked under your seat?” I looked a little closer. “And do I see a white veil tucked up under your hat?”
“How’d you like to walk the rest of the way to where you’re going?” Earlene turned onto Liberty. “And where exactly is that anyway?”
“Sleepy Pines. I need to pick up some resale items.”
“You mean old Sexy Pines?” Earlene laughed deep in her throat. “I guess they haven’t retired from everything over there, have they?” The bottom-lip pout was back. “Mighty sad state of affairs when a bunch of seniors are getting more action than me here in my prime at twenty-nine.” Earlene hadn’t seen twenty-nine for about six years now, but since I didn’t feel like walking I thought it best to keep my mouth shut.
“My auntie was all set to move into that Pines place,” Earlene said to me. “Then she heard they’re having a run on funerals lately and she’s not wanting to be next on that particular list, if you know what I mean. All the sexy in the world doesn’t count for much if they’re putting you in a box and dropping you six feet down.”
Earlene stopped next to the Barnard Street sign. “This is as close as I get with old Sexy being just around the corner. And you best watch your step, missy, or they’ll be signing you up for real with all those wrinkles you got going on this morning.”
“That bad?”
“Sure ain’t good, not that it’ll matter much to the old coots you’re visiting. From what I hear, they may have snow on the roof, but they still got some fire in the furnace, and right now you’re what they call fresh meat.”
Earlene laughed as I stepped onto the sidewalk, but she didn’t start up in her usual pedal-to-the-metal fashion. “I’m waiting for my little oldster lady.” Earlene tapped her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. “Every Tuesday she takes the 8:32 to town, and her not being here worries me a bit. She’s so cute with her little red pocketbook and dress and hats that match. She meets up with a man friend who gets on at the next stop and she always brings me two toffee candies ’cause I help her on and off.”
“The woman have short gray curly hair?”
“You see her?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Maybe I should tell the police so they can keep an eye out for her.”
“Or not,” I added in a hurry. “Maybe she’s taken a trip … a really long, long trip.”
Earlene closed the doors and motored off in a lung-clogging cloud. It wasn’t even ten and the day had gone from bad to wrinkles. I was on the lighter side of thirty-five, so how’d that happened? A sleepless night preceded by dead-body bingo, that’s how. And was that the beginnings of a muffin top overlapping my denim skirt? With helping Boone get off the most-wanted list, I hadn’t had time for exercise, not that I’d been dedicated to the idea before. I could get shin splints if I jog, my brain argued. Then my gut bellowed, You’ve already got flab, and think how that will look in a wedding dress. Taking a deep breath, I jogged off toward Sexy Pines.
Huffing and puffing like a three-pack-a-day habit, I turned onto Tattnall Street, focusing on the Pines at the next corner. The place had been built right after the unfortunate Northern occurrence and had been in the Tattnall family ever since. It had been a fine estate until someone invented real estate taxes; then a lot of the grounds had been sold off. About five years back, Mr. Jim Tattnall had turned the two-story Georgian plus carriage house and gardens into a retirement home.
“Howdy there, Reagan,” Mr. Jim said, opening the door as a good deal of yelling and screaming inside floated my way. “Saw you running here like a bat out of Hades. Where’s the fire?”
“Trying to lose some weight. What’s going on inside? Is this a bad time?”
“You always look mighty fine to me, sugar, but if you do get the answer to that weight problem, be sure and let me know—though, truth be told, I bet it might have something to do with those double-chocolate brownies I keep hidden away in the kitchen.” Mr. Jim patted his rounded middle, the buttons of his bright white dress shirt straining to stay closed. He nodded to the interior, the racket intensifying. “A few of our guests are a mite rambunctious this morning is all.”
“Somebody get up on the wrong side of the bed?”
“Best I can tell, somebody’s in the wrong bed and there’s hell to pay.”
Chapter Four
Mr. Jim arched his brow, let out a deep sigh, then massaged his forehead. “‘Open a retirement home,’ my accountant said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ he said. ‘You’ll make money.’ He left out the part about playing referee for fifteen residents at Peyton Place Dixie-style. I tell you, they all need a hobby.”
“If you ask me, they got one.”
Mr. Jim’s eyes brightened with laughter as he opened the door to let me in. “Willie’s sourpuss daughter said you’d be stopping on over. The apple sure doesn’t fall far from the tree with that one. I do believe pain-in-the-butt is a genetic condition in the Fishbine family.”
“Willie won’t be missed?”
“Party’s at seven, fireworks at nine. I thought that pasty-faced old crank would die of orneriness instead of something like asthma. Fact is, I didn’t know you could die of asthma, but then at his age you can die of a hangnail if it hits you wrong.”
I stepped inside to the smells of the South—strong coffee and things baking and frying. None of those sissy granola live-forever breakfasts around here. Guess they figured if bacon, eggs, and butter had gotten them this far, why mess with success?
I followed Mr. Jim down the hall with brass chandeliers twinkling overhead and group pictures decorating the walls. There were the winners of the great canasta tournament, the horseshoe contest, the ballroom dance competition, the flower-arranging championship, the walkathon, and the happy hoedown. Considering the nickname of this place, I didn’t want to even think about what that last one was all about.
“Willie’s bloodsucking relatives done took anything of value,” Mr. Jim yelled over the escalating din as we got closer to the parlor. “What’s left of his belongings are parked in the closet in the back.” Mr. Jim hitched his head toward the two men in the parlor who were all blue in the face from having a conniption about whatever, though they did coordinate nicely with the greens and yellows of the room. “I need to take care of this,” Mr. Jim yelled, louder so I could hear him.
“They’re old; they have walkers,” I shouted. “How much damage can they really do?”
Mr. Jim strode into the parlor, stepping between the two men. “Foley, Emmitt, you need to be calming down now, ya hear? It’s not good for either of you to be carrying on like this. You know how it ups your blood pressure. We’ll talk over a nice cup of tea.”
“Tea?” the man in the red Atlanta Braves cap roared to his opponent. “Bring out the Wild Turkey and get the dueling pistols from over the fireplace.” He took two blasts from his inhaler, snarled, then flung the thing at the other guy. “I’m teaching Foley here a lesson if it’s the last thing I do. Twenty paces at dawn in Washington Square, or can’t you make it that far, you knock-kneed woman stealer? Just because you had that big fancy house over there on Oglethorpe, you think you can have anything or anyone you want.”
“You bet I can.” The guy in the jogging suit and a blue Chicago Cubs cap picked up his walker and shook it in the air. “Bonnie Sue is looking for a real man, someone who owned land and lots of it, not some piddly, stoop-shouldered twerp who wouldn’t know how to pour water out of a boot with a hole in the toe. That woman’s mine, and I can take you any day of the week and I’ll prove it right now.”
“You’re all talk and a spit’s worth of glitter. Bring on the pistols.”
Mr. Jim turned back to me, a line of perspiration dotting his forehead. “Honey, can you have Eugenia bring in some chamomile tea? And tell her to step on it.”
Personally, I thought Prozac tea would work better. I rushed past the dining room, where a few guests oblivious to the bedlam were eating breakfast at adorable little round tables with starched tablecloths and fresh flowers. I turned into the kitchen and nearly collided with the chef, who was expertly flipping pancakes with one hand and scrambling egg whites with the other. Guess there were more healthy things going on here than I’d realized.
“Lamar?” I stopped dead, taking in his smudged white apron and the pots and pans simmering on the stove, little curls of steam escaping into the air. “Thought you were doing the valet thing over at the Old Harbor Inn.”
“I help Mr. Jim out in the mornings. It’s a stressful time of day, with making things taste right and not upping cholesterol and blood sugar and all. I’m getting right good at buckwheat flapjacks, I can tell you that.”
We both looked at Mr. Jim’s daughter, Eugenia, sitting at a window seat studying her manicure and not stressing one bit. It was like Auntie KiKi had once said: if God had made someone better than Eugenia Tattnall, he’d forgotten to tell her about it.
“Reagan?” Eugenia said, finally realizing she wasn’t the only person on earth. “What are you doing here? Checking out the place for that busybody auntie of yours? What’s her name … FiFi? DeDe? Or is it BeBe? She taught me how to foxtrot.”
“She taught half the people in this city how to foxtrot, and her name’s KiKi, and she’s just fine; thank you for asking. Can you take tea into the parlor for your dad? There’s a disagreement and he thinks tea might help settle things down, and—”
“I tell you, around here drama and picking up prescriptions and hauling people to the doctor are a way of life.” Eugenia swept back her salon-styled strawberry blonde hair with a flourish that would have made Lady Gaga proud. “It sure does get tiresome living around all these old people and antique furniture and creaky floors and plumbing that works half the time. Downright depressing to a young, vibrant woman such as myself. Lamar can do tea; that’s what he gets paid for. I’m busy waiting for my date, Mr. Dexter Thomas.”
Eugenia let out a dreamy sigh. “He’s new in town, from Atlanta, and the Savannah Sun just called him Mr. Up-and-Comer. They did a big article on his company, the Southern Way, now owning the House of Eternal Slumber with an eye on other properties and I do declare, Reagan honey, you’ve done put on a few pounds over the winter, bless your little plump heart.”
A horn sounded and Eugenia jumped up as if she’d had a spring in her butt. “I’m coming Dex, sugar. We’re off to Charleston for the day in his new Mercedes, of all things. I think we’ll eat at the Charleston Grill or that 1886 place; I hear it’s divine. I know we won’t be eating Italian. Dex simply hates Italian, and I told him I don’t like it either. We just have so much in common.” Eugenia snagged her purse off the table and held up her hand, a gold bracelet with a crystal heart catching the light. “He gave me this just last night. Dex is such a dreamboat. Ta now. Try not to get too bored around here without me to liven things up for ya.”
Eugenia giggled and hurried out the back door into the garden, past the cherub fountain spitting droplets into the air, past the horseshoe courts and the putting green. The wrought iron gate clanked shut, and Lamar and I exchanged looks that said “Thank heavens she’s gone.” Back in the day, Eugenia and I had gone to school together. She was a cheerleader and captain of the spirit club; I came in third in the sixth-grade spelling bee and was captain of the sprinkle-doughnut club. The one thing we had in common was being divorced from total jerks.
Lamar checked a red clipboard labeled “Dietary Restrictions,” then slid the egg whites onto a plate along with dry toast and a dish of prunes. “Don’t let Miss Eugenia get all up in your grill now; that’s just the way she is. Mr. Jim raised her spoiled, and it stuck like frosting on a cake.”
“More like a tick on a dog?”
“That too.” Lamar took the plate in one hand, a tray with a teapot and cups in the other, and trotted down the hall, not spilling a drop. I stole a veggie sausage link from the platter on the counter, then headed for the closet. Mr. Jim had been right in that nothing of Willie’s was worth selling. I folded pants and shirts into boxes and added two pairs of gym shoes and a copy of The Badass’s Guide to Making Money to the Goodwill pile. I stacked the boxes in the corner, then headed down the hall toward the loud voices, which hadn’t subsided one decibel.
“She’s mine, I tell you,” Emmitt bellowed as Foley backed him into the hallway, wielding his walker like a weapon. He flattened Foley and me (somehow I got in the way) against the wall between pictures of the King of Karaoke and the Mardi Gras Maiden—and I knew the maiden. Least I thought I did. It was hard to tell with a peacock perched on her head and Emmitt’s walker wedged between my legs where no walker had a right to be.
“This has gone far enough,” Mr. Jim yelled. “You boys were both in the Sons of Savannah Revolutionary War reenactment brigade, for crying out loud, got awards for best performers, and now you’re here fighting each other like cats and dogs?” Mr. Jim hooked a strong arm around each of the Casanovas and pretty much dragged them away with, “What say
we let Bonnie Sue sort this out when she gets back from visiting her kin?”
“Well, she’s mine,” Foley yelled at Emmitt. “And you better get used to it, you old geezer.”
“You’re the geezer,” Emmitt yelled back. “Bonnie Sue’s mine, and I intend to have her if it’s the last thing I do.”
I snagged Lamar coming out of the parlor and pulled him over to the pictures. “Do you know who that is?” I tapped the peacock. “Do you have any idea where she is?”
“That’s the infamous Miss Bonnie Sue McGrath, and she must be very talented in ways of the flesh that a young impressionable man like me doesn’t want to be thinking about. All I know is that she sure has got the men around here in a lather, and she’s—”
“Visiting friends in Garden City,” Annie Fritz said as she rushed up on my right side, balancing a try of scones, at the same time that Elsie came up on my left side with a tray of orange juice and blurted, “Beaufort.”
“I thought she was in Atlanta.” Lamar shrugged, then dashed off toward the kitchen and the scent of burning biscuits.
“What we mean to say,” Elsie went on, a frozen smile stuck firmly in place, “is that Bonnie Sue is on a little holiday and has friends in Garden City—”
“And they’re aiming to visit other friends over there in Beaufort,” Annie Fritz chimed in. “And then they’re on to Atlanta, and you, missy, need to stop gossiping here with us and wasting time and be getting yourself back to the Prissy Fox right this minute. Forget all about Bonnie Sue. In fact, I think everyone needs to be forgetting about Bonnie Sue, and the sooner the better. But for you there’s a line of customers waiting to get into your shop.”
“Customers?” Okay, that got my attention. I hadn’t had much of anyone in the shop for two weeks thanks to Anna and Bella’s Boutique opening up and stealing my business. So what had brought on this sudden surge of interest in the Fox? I had no idea, but right now there was something more important than money and customers.
“Look,” I said in a low voice to Annie and Elsie Fritz. “Bonnie Sue was sitting in my display window last night, and she was in your Caddy parked in the alley before that, and both times she was…” I checked to make sure Foley and Emmitt weren’t around, as two old guys having heart attacks over the demise of the talented Bonnie Sue was not what Mr. Jim needed right now on top of everything else. “… dead.”