Lethal in Old Lace

by Duffy Brown

  Something crashed over my head, and I took the steps two at a time. “Boone?”

  I turned left and nearly tripped over BW, who was staring up at a hole in the ceiling with a jean-clad leg, no sock, and a worn brown boat shoe sticking out.

  “Boone? Say something.”

  “I smell Parker’s meatloaf. You’re my hero.”

  “Hold that thought.” In the unfinished room on the other side of the stairs, I spied a ladder leading up through the attic opening that usually had a wood covering over it. I’d always known the attic was up there somewhere but had never had the guts to check things out in a house nearly a hundred years old. I clamped the Parker’s bag in my teeth, held tight to the six-pack, and climbed the ladder into dark shadows. “What are you doing up here?”

  “Ruining your house.”

  A flashlight sat on an old dusty chest next to a stack of equally dusty boxes. I put the bag and beer on the chest and kissed Boone. He tasted warm and delish and like coming home. “What if we do this: I’ll put my shoulder under your arm and you try to wiggle your leg free. Or we can call Big Joey and he can have a good laugh.”

  I bent down and Boone put his arm around me. “I think I’ve got a fat foot.” He gave one last tug and both of us fell back on the flooring, staring at the rafters. Boone kissed the tip of my nose. “I think you have a leak in the roof, and it rotted out this part of the ceiling.”

  I looked down at Boone’s leg. “You’re bleeding!”

  “It’s just a scratch, and everyone knows that meatloaf from Parkers makes everything better.”

  “They need to put that on a sign.” I sat next to Boone, got the bag, and pulled out one sandwich, two salads, two apples, and an oatmeal cookie, Boone’s favorite. For me, anything with cookie in the title was my favorite, and there, in a nutshell, is why I’d only bought one.

  “Where’s the other sandwich?” Boone wanted to know as he unwrapped the one in front of him.

  “At Parkers where it belongs. I need to fit into a wedding dress.”

  Boone tore his sandwich in half and handed me a section. “Buy a bigger dress.”

  Oh, for the life of the groom. “I’m fine with salad and an apple,” I lied. I twisted off the cap of a water bottle and Boone did the ritual with the beer. We clinked bottles, though the plastic made kind of a thunk, and we dug in. “You’re up here ’cause Mamma talked to you,” I said around a mouthful of greens.

  “Something about Gloria Elizabeth and Graham Robert that I didn’t get, but she made it sound like they were coming to visit soon and we needed room and I should look in the attic. There is a ton of space up here.”

  I took a drink of water and chomped a cherry tomato, trying to pretend it was a meatball. “The thing is, I can’t afford a lot of renovations and I just don’t have time to do it myself and I’m kind of independent—”

  “Kind of?”

  “And I can’t have you paying my way on things just ’cause you have a successful law practice, own the Old Harbor Inn, and business for me has been a little off lately. You and I are busy with jobs, so we’d have to hire someone, and you know how expensive that is.”

  Boone took a bite of sandwich, the yummy sauce dripping off his fingertips. “What about this: I’ll buy half the house, you put my name on the deed so I don’t feel like a kept man, and we use that money to pay for the rehabbing. We turn the attic space up here into bedrooms and storage and below into the kitchen, laundry, dining, and living room.” He pointed through the hole and dropped a chunk of meatloaf to BW. “It’s a big job and needs professionals. You and I can paint and decorate, but there’s rot up here that needs big-time attention with contractors.”

  I stopped my fork halfway to my mouth. “You’ve thought about this?”

  “We only do this if you agree. It’s your house and you love it, and this way you keep the Fox on the first floor. You gotta admit that makes for an easy commute. No rush-hour traffic.”

  I put down my water and swallowed hard.

  “Oh God, Reagan.” Boone froze. “Please, I beg of you, don’t cry. I can’t take you crying. If you’re upset, we won’t do anything. We’ll let the whole ceiling cave in and I’ll step over the wreckage and I won’t even care, I swear. It’ll be a good conversation piece.”

  “I’m happy.”

  “This is happy?”

  “Really happy. I’m not crying.” I sniffed and swiped my nose. “I never cry. Finding Hollis on the dining room table doing the horizontal hula with my best friend, not one tear. Flunking organic chemistry and not graduating on time, the same. Slicing my finger to the bone while carving a pumpkin and twelve stitches later, nothing.”

  “So the little streams running down your cheek are not tears.”

  I wrapped my arms around Boone’s neck and held tight. “Absolutely not. But you are one amazing man.”

  He held me tight back. “And you are one amazing woman.”

  “About that.” I let go of Boone and smoothed the soft T-shirt over his rock-hard chest. Dang, was I a lucky girl or what? “I went to visit Auntie KiKi at Sleepy Pines. She’s there for a sprained ankle that really isn’t sprained.”

  “Does Uncle Putter know?”

  “What do you think?”

  Boone finished off his beer in one long drink.

  “She’s trying to see who else might have had a reason to knock off Willie and Bonnie Sue—that’s the gal in the garden, and we think her death is connected to Willie’s. We know the Abbott sisters didn’t do the deed, so we need to find who did, and this is it for me on finding dead bodies.” I made a cross over my heart. “No more. If I open a door and one drops at my feet, I’m stepping over it. Maybe I’ll call 911, but I’m not paying any attention at all, no matter what.”

  “Even if that dead body has something to do with KiKi or one of your loyal customers at the Fox or the priest at St. John’s who gave you First Communion or the gal at the Cakery Bakery who puts sprinkles on your favorite doughnuts?”

  “I love the sprinkle lady. Her name’s Lottie, and she has three kids in college. Can you imagine?”

  Boone put down his sandwich and kissed me on the lips. “I don’t want to change you, Reagan, I just want to marry you. You wouldn’t have me give up the Seventeenth Street Gang, wear ties, or join the country club. All I ask is no secrets and if you need my help, ask.”

  “Well, since you brought up the help thing … when Auntie KiKi calls and says apple, she needs you quick, and as for secrets…” I opened another beer and handed it to him. “There’s a casket in her BMW, Willie Fishbine’s inside, and we think someone killed him with a peanut allergy, so we’re holding on to him while we prove it.”

  * * *

  “Are you all ready?” Mamma bubbled when I let her in the back door early the next morning. “We can’t be late for the Sugar Bell. That cancellation date opening up is destiny knocking. It’s a mighty lucky break that’s meant to be. It’s karma!”

  Mamma had on a black-and-white flowered dress with a little jacket and a lovely black handbag. She looked every inch the quintessential judge. I had on a blue cotton skirt and white blouse, my hair pulled back into a knot because I’d just gotten out of the shower, and looked every inch the shopkeeper scrambling to keep it together.

  “Our appointment with the hostess is at nine,” Mamma added. “I got us the first available slot so we can put a down payment on that canceled date for next month. I have a check right here in my purse to secure the deal.”

  “I’ll pay for it.” Somehow, I added to myself.

  “Nonsense.” Mamma waved her hand, putting an end to the discussion. “I want to do this. The loveliest weddings are at the Sugar Bell House. It has that big porch, surrounded by live oaks and magnolias, and simply sublime Southern décor. I know it’s going to be tight getting a caterer lined up on such short notice and finding you a nice dress—something long and in cream and not too much lace, since this is your second wedding.” Mamma framed my face between h
er palms. “Oh, honey, we can make this work. You and Walker are perfect together.” She glanced around. “So where is the groom? Is he sleeping in?”

  “BW does the sleeping in around here. Boone isn’t a sleep-in kind of guy. He’s more a grab-a-protein-bar-and-get-the-job-done kind of guy.”

  I snapped up Old Yeller, swallowed a resigned sigh of wedding out of control, and headed for Mamma’s hearse. “I got the Cakery Bakery working on a protein doughnut. If they figure it out, Boone and I got the happily-ever-after thing knocked.”

  Mamma powered down Bull Street and past Forsythe Park, speckled with morning joggers and walkers. The Sugar Bell House was just beyond the Victorian district and out of the hustle and bustle of the historic district. Mamma pulled in front of the Foxy Loxy café next door, only slightly nudging the fire hydrant at the curb. She pointed to the once-upon-a-time white ornate house turned uppity wedding venue and sighed. “Isn’t it exquisite? Just the right size for an intimate wedding of a hundred and fifty or so.”

  Truth be told, the Foxy Loxy was more my speed, but since Mamma had stood by me when I’d married Hollis knowing full well I shouldn’t be marrying the jackass and never uttered a word of “I told you so” when I got divorced, I owed her this happy wedding of her dreams.

  She opened the little gate, and we took the steps to the front porch with white wicker furniture and red geraniums spilling over white flowerboxes. Mamma knocked and the door swung opened to a petite thirty-something in a perfect blue knit suit, Christian Dior makeup, and a gold name tag etched with “Hostess Lou Ella Farnsworth.” And Eugenia?

  “But … but you promised us the first appointment for the cancellation date,” Mamma blurted, looking from the hostess to Eugenia and clutching her purse as if it were a life preserver. “We are so counting on Reagan getting married here and—”

  “Cancellation?” Eugenia gasped, hand to cheek in a horrified pose. She glared at Mamma and me. “I do declare, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m here to reserve the Sugar Bell House for next year.”

  Lou Ella smiled at Eugenia and patted her hand. “Of course you are. Everyone knows you have to reserve an intimate wedding venue of this sort a year in advance, unless, of course, you wait for a”—she cleared her throat as if trying to dislodge a fur ball—“cancellation.”

  Eugenia parked her hand on her hip. “What kind of bride goes begging dates for her wedding? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “You’re engaged?” I asked Eugenia. I felt more like saying “Drop dead and take the Sugar Bell House with you,” but since Mamma was with me I went with good Southern manners. “Congratulations.”

  Eugenia slid her left hand behind her back and tipped her chin. “Any day now, Dex will pop the question, and I want to be ready and not caught off guard like some people around here.” She nailed me with a sideways glance and exchanged sweet smiles with Lou Ella.

  “Dex is such a find; we are soulmates and meant to be together. Everyone says so—with my volunteer work with the Savannah libraries and his status in the community.” She hugged Lou Ella. “I’ll have a deposit to you by the end of the week along with that little something extra we talked about. And don’t you go giving my wedding day away now, you hear?” Eugenia gave Lou Ella an air kiss then floated down the steps.

  Lou Ella gave Mamma and me a faux smile that nearly cracked her makeup. She held out her hand, took one look at me as if seeing me for the first time, then yanked her hand back. “I know you; you were married to Hollis.”

  “Sometimes referred to as Savannah’s version of the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “He told me all about the pitiful way you treated him—how you tried to get him accused of murder, of all things.”

  “Actually, he was accused of murder and I got him off, of all things.”

  “That’s a lie; you should be ashamed of yourself!” Lou Ella screeched. “Hollis and I are going to be married right here in August. Daddy can’t wait to bring him into his real estate firm because Hollis is such a successful businessman with more prospects on the way. I wouldn’t rent the Sugar Bell House to you no matter how much you pay me. There are ten people just dying to snap up this cancellation date who will probably pay more than you ever would. You should get married at Wall’s Barbecue. I’m sure they have an opening, and it’s much more your style.” Lou Ella took a step back and, with a flourish, slammed the door in our faces, the glass rattling in the window frames.

  Mamma turned to me. “Reagan, what in the world just happened here?”

  I kissed Mamma on the cheek. “For once in his self-centered, lying, fornicating, miserable life, Hollis Beaumont the Third did me a favor.”

  Chapter Ten

  I took Mamma’s hand. “We should get coffee and a Danish to celebrate.” I ushered my still-dazed mamma down the steps and across the sidewalk to one of the little white tables under a huge live oak tree outside the Foxy Loxy café. “Sit. Think happy thoughts, rainbows and unicorns.”

  “At a time like this?”

  “I’ll be back in a minute.” I skipped inside and returned with two cappuccinos, the foam swirled into hearts—I loved how they did that—and two cherry Danishes the size of my hand. I’d probably have to jog to Beaufort and back to wear off the poundage from the pastry, but at the moment I didn’t care. Some things needed celebrating. I sat across from Mamma and held up my cup. “Life is good.”

  “Reagan, that girl just ruined your chances to get married at the Sugar Bell, and it’s the perfect place for you and Walker to start your life together.” Mamma bit her lip. “I suppose we could wait till next year for an opening.”

  I took a sip and licked the foam from my upper lip. “I don’t want to wait a year, and I don’t want to get married at the Sugar Bell House.” I put down my coffee and took Mamma’s hands in mine. “I want to get married at your house. I want to get married where it means something, a place that has memories, good vibes, where I already know the furniture. I want you to marry Boone and me and I want to have Auntie KiKi as my matron of honor and Big Joey as the best man and BW as the ring bearer. I want the Abbott sisters to sing ‘Ave Maria’ because it’s classic and pretty, and I want to wear strappy pink heels and a short pink dress with a twirly skirt for dancing. I want to eat pot roast and drink champagne and have a good selection of beer because Boone is more beer than champagne, and around midnight I want the Naked Dog food truck to pull up to the curb and us all to have loaded hotdogs with chili fries and sit on big blankets on the front lawn and eat because we’ll be hungry again from all the dancing.”

  I crossed my fingers, held my breath, and studied Mamma with her judge face firmly in place as Dexter ambled up the sidewalk. He had his arm around … oh, you have got to be kidding … Arnett Fishbine?

  “My house is too small,” Mamma said in a slow, thoughtful voice, snapping me back to the moment. “But what about KiKi’s house?”

  “KiKi’s house?”

  Arnett was old enough to be Dexter’s mother, though the skimpy yellow dress and exposed cleavage didn’t suggest that a mother role was what she had in mind, and was that bracelet on her arm just like the one he’d given Eugenia? That rat-fink!

  “Rose Gate is perfect.” Mamma grinned like a kid at Christmas, her cheeks rosy with excitement. “Your aunt will simply love the idea. It even has the small ballroom KiKi converted all those years ago when she started teaching dance lessons. And there’s that beautiful old staircase. I bet the fourth step still squeaks. And if you do an autumn wedding, all the mums will be out in force and it won’t be so hot around here that we’re all ready to pass right out, and that will give you and Walker a few months to enjoy the moment. Instead of summer pink, maybe you can go with autumn coral. I can make an appointment for us at BleuBelle Bridal. Just because you want a colorful dress doesn’t mean you don’t want something lovely. What do you think?”

  “Think about what?”

  “You? Walker? Filing a joint tax return? For h
eaven’s sake, does any of this sound familiar? What in the world is so interesting that you keep looking over my shoulder?”

  Mamma dropped her napkin to the ground, retrieved it, and discretely cut her eyes toward Dexter two tables over. She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “I do believe that’s the man who just bought the House of Eternal Slumber. There was a big article in the paper about him being Mr. Up-and-Comer, but from the looks of what’s going on over at that table, it should have been Mr. Pucker-Upper.”

  “That’s Eugenia’s Dex.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. What should we do? We need to tell Eugenia.”

  “What we need to do is drink our coffee and go home. Honey, you can’t tell Eugenia that her soulmate is doing kissy-face with…”

  “Eleanor Roosevelt?”

  “It’s not that bad.” Mamma grabbed another peek. “Well, maybe, but if you say something to Eugenia about two-timing Dex, it sounds an awful lot like ‘I’m getting married and you’re not, naaa na na naaa na,’ and she’d never believe you. Besides, maybe Dex is here to break up with this woman and this is a last date?”

  “Maybe she’s adopting him. She has to be twenty years older.”

  Mamma set her elbow on the table, her chin resting in her palm. “Okay, you haven’t touched your Danish and you’re sitting there flipping your hair and your eye’s twitching something fierce. Why are you obsessing over this Dex person? I know it’s not just Eugenia; you two were never all that close. What’s buzzing around in that brain of yours? Spill it.”

  “That woman with Dex is Arnett Fishbine. Her father lived and died at Sleepy Pines, and she’s inheriting some serious cash. Okay, I get that Dex is hustling her for money, but why is he playing Eugenia? She’s not wealthy and he can’t really care for her if he’s playing around like this. Then there’s the thing about Eugenia and Arnett both being connected to Sleepy Pines. Doesn’t that seem a little fluky to you? I mean, of all the women in Savannah, Dex connects with these two?”