by Duffy Brown
Fashion to Die for
“Look at this,” KiKi said, waving her hand over the shoppers in the dining room. “Murder truly is good for business. I never knew people could be so ghoulish. Everyone wants to know every gory little detail about Cupcake and the body. I suppose it’s like Cher said: ‘There is no such thing as bad publicity.’ ”
“Cher said that?”
“She would have if she’d thought of it first. We’ve been busy as ants at a picnic. I’m thinking it’s all because of the body in the Lexus, but now we are getting clothes to sell. I took in some costume jewelry that looked kind of nice, and maybe we should start to do furniture. While you were gone, I went and named your store the Prissy Fox.”
Iced Chiffon
DUFFY BROWN
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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ICED CHIFFON
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Dianne Kruetzkamp.
Cover illustration by Julia Green.
Cover design by Diana Kolsky.
Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-61152-4
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is
stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the
author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
~ACKNOWLEDGMENTS~
Thanks to Faith Black and Roberta Brown for believing in this series. A new author is always a gamble; I won’t let you down.
Thanks to my kids—Emily, Gina, Ann, and David—for believing in me and to the gals at the real Fox, the Snooty Fox. Working with Donna Spigel, Michelle Webber, Emily Gildea, and Trish Goodman is always an adventure and a bit of a mystery. Is that Gucci bag real or a knockoff?
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter One
I POURED out the last of the pinot and lifted my glass as I gazed around the dining-room table. “Good-bye, Louis, Donna, Diane, and Ralph.” A vintage Armani cocktail dress and Kate Spade pantsuit were draped over the table, sad and abandoned. “To friends. We’ve been through luncheons together, dinners, weddings, and funerals. You made me feel good when I was PMS-ing and bloated or put on five pounds from a Godiva bender. You’ve been there for me, from country-club dances to the Hobart bar mitzvah, and I appreciate it; I truly do.”
I gulped down another toast as Auntie KiKi, my mother’s only sibling, sashayed in through the back door from her house, next to mine. “Reagan, honey, don’t you think it’s a mite early in the day for tying one on, even by Savannah standards?”
Today KiKi’s hair was frizzed out from the humidity, and she had on her favorite red floral skirt. When she was born, the angels hovered over her crib chanting “cha-cha-cha” and turned her into a dance instructor. For Mamma, they’d chanted, “Follow the elephant,” which led to her becoming a staunch Republican, which is how I ended up with the name Reagan.
“Who in the world are you talking to, anyway?” Auntie KiKi asked.
I cut my eyes to the grandfather clock in the living room, the only thing left in there since I’d sold off the Chippendale davenport, Oriental rug, two matching chairs, and the Tiffany lamp, which had been a wedding present seven years ago. “Don’t you have fox-trot lessons at nine on Wednesdays?” I blurted, feeling a little stupid for talking to a bunch of designer clothes. “The future beaus and belles of Savannah need to be up to dancing speed for the spring cotillion, or their mammas and daddies will be deeply upset, and that is not good for business.”
“I threatened to play my Sinatra collection if they didn’t keep practicing while I ran over here to see what was happening. Your lights were blazing all night long. Why are your nice things laid out like a Sunday buffet?”
“Hollis Beaumont the third had the social connections in our marriage,” I told KiKi. “Now that we’re divorced, I’m back to being Reagan Summerside the first. I have no need for designer clothes, and I’m taking them to that consignment shop on Broughton.”
I waved my hand over the Ralph Lauren slacks with the cute red trim. “I put this wardrobe together from resale shops and eBay. I did it for Hollis. He said we had to look successful so he could be successful. Being a real-estate broker in these times, the man needed every advantage.” I sighed. “Now he’s dancing in the high cotton, and I have overdue bills.”
“And the moral of that particular story is never sign a prenup. Like Cher used to say, ‘If you put everything you know about men
on the head of a pin, there’d still be room for the Lord’s Prayer.’” In college Auntie KiKi had been a roadie for Cher, and she’d never quite left the tour. “There’s just no figuring men,” she continued. “Especially the one you happened to pick.”
“Seven years ago, I was young, knew everything, and believed love conquered all. Now I’m thirty-two, divorced, broke, living in a half-restored Victorian, and have learned that overdue bills conquer all.” I gazed up at the crack across the dining-room ceiling, which seemed to be getting wider—or maybe that was one of the aftereffects of cheap wine at nine in the morning. Nope, there was white plaster dust on the Donna Karan navy silk blouse. “Least I got Cherry House.”
“You’re the one who’s done all the work on this place since buying it five years ago. You had your eye on Cherry House since you were a kid, and the only reason Hollis bought it was that he knew it was a good investment and that you’d do all the rehab work. He finally agreed to give you the place so he wouldn’t look like a total horse’s patoot for taking up with that platinum-blonde cupcake fifteen years younger than he is. If he looks bad, no one will list a house from him ever again, and he knows it.”
“The cupcake is twenty years younger.” I hiccupped, feeling a little woozy from bad wine and a lot woozy from being kicked to the curb and having cracks in my ceiling. “Hollis turns forty-five next week.”
The clock chimed, and KiKi swiped the glass from my hand. “Gotta go. The real problem is that Hollis has terminal MLCS—midlife crisis syndrome.” She downed the last sip before heading for the door. “I’ll take that white Christian Dior suit if you’re sure you’re getting rid of it,” she called over her shoulder. “It’s just the thing to get me going on a diet, and you should keep the pink chiffon, Reagan; it’s a killer dress.” KiKi two-stepped across the yard to her stately Queen Anne, which had been in the Vanderpool family since 1888.
KiKi had married the perfect Southern gentleman.
I’d married the perfect Southern philanderer.
I picked up the white Dior and tried to picture my fiftish auntie of ample proportions in a size eight, but my gaze drifted back to the pink chiffon. Maybe I should keep it. Maybe I’d go somewhere snazzy someday. I wasn’t dead yet.
“Yoo-hoo, Reagan, are you in there?” came a voice from the back door. “I have that wallpaper you’ve been waiting on.”
Restoring an old Victorian meant I ordered cornices, entablatures, and other ornate gingerbread pieces online because I couldn’t find them anyplace in Savannah. They always cost the earth, and I’d gotten to be real good friends with my UPS delivery crew.
“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, is this a real Louis Vuitton?” Chantilly Parker breezed into the hall and entered the dining room wearing her brown company uniform, her long curly hair tucked under the official UPS hat. She laid the double rolls on the table and picked up the azure canvas tote I’d gotten at a resale shop in Atlanta.
“You can have it. It suits you,” I told her.
“Girlfriend, I don’t deliver wallpaper for free, and you’ve no reason to hand over a nice purse for nothing either.” Chantilly’s eyes wandered. “Are you selling all this stuff?”
“See that pile of bills?” I nodded to the second step of the stairway, where I’d stacked everything marked “overdue.” I’d sold the mahogany hall table, where I usually put the mail and parked my big yellow purse I thought of as Old Yeller, my best friend and constant companion. The historic walking tours I led around Savannah didn’t make a dent in what it took to keep this old house going. Being a guide was a great outlet for my Southern-history degree, but now I had to either find a new source of income or sell the place.
“Been to the steps myself a time or two,” Chantilly offered. “Then I got this job. I love UPS but don’t much care for the uniform. When I get a tan in the summer, I look like a tree trunk. I fear someday a dog’s going to pee on my leg.” She pulled out a checkbook.
“Think UPS would hire me?” I asked. I could drive a truck and make deliveries.
“They’re laying off, just like everyone else these days, but I’ll keep an eye out for you,” Chantilly promised as she passed me her check.
I waved it off. “That’s too much.”
She shook her head and dropped it on the table. “You should keep that pink chiffon, sugar. That is a to–die-for dress with your blonde hair—when you don’t have three inches of roots showing—your green eyes, and skinny behind.” Chantilly left through the back door with her new tote slung over her shoulder. It looked better on her than it ever did on me.
The front door opened, and Hollis and Janelle (the cupcake) strolled in, holding hands. Some days it was just me, the rotting timbers, and the cracking plaster around here; other days, like today, it was Grand Central Station. Hollis and Cupcake didn’t even knock but stood there in the hallway looking as if they owned the place. Well, technically, Hollis did own half the house until his no–count, low-rent, conniving, scum-sucking, sleazebag lawyer transferred the deed to me. I forced a smile. The divorce was final six months ago but the house wasn’t officially mine yet. I had to play nice.
Hollis was fit, handsome as always, and looked thirty-five. Were those blond highlights in his hair? I raked back my curls to try and hide the roots. Janelle truly did look like a cupcake today in her yellow silk blouse, white slacks, and a hundred-dollar mani-pedi in creamy peach. I put my hands behind my back to hide nails ragged from stripping wallpaper. At least I didn’t have to suck in my stomach, the upside of an empty fridge.
Hollis laughed at something Cupcake said, his bleached teeth a bit blinding. “We were showing a house over on Bolton and came to get your key to my Lexus while we were in the area,” he informed me as he picked out his own car key from his ring and held it up.
This was Hollis rubbing his success in my face. He and Cupcake were always in the area. The real-estate office was three blocks away, and they worked there together. They did other things there together, too, like the horizontal hula on his desk the night I found them. Cupcake hooked her arm through Hollis’s. “I just love the Lexus,” she cooed.
I loved that car, too. In fact, I’d put down the initial payment on it, which probably had something to do with my forgetfulness in dropping off the key.
“I’ll get my purse,” I said, heading down the hall to the kitchen, where I’d left it on the counter.
“How can you find anything in that yellow-plastic saddlebag you carry around?” Hollis called after me, an I’m–better-than-you lilt in his voice. “And why are all your clothes in the dining room?”
“Selling them,” I called back, my voice echoing through the mostly empty rooms. No need to conceal the truth; the whole of Savannah would soon find out that Reagan Summerside, once-upon–a–time Beaumont, was peddling her wardrobe for cash. The Savannah kudzu vine was alive and well and knew all.
“Oh my goodness,” Cupcake squealed. “I do love this pink-chiffon dress Reagan has here. Don’t you love it, Hollis, honey? It’s perfect for the cocktail party this evening at the Telfair Museum. I wasn’t going to buy anything new since I have to duck out early for that showing on East Hall.”
I came back into the dining room, and Cupcake snatched the key from my fingers and dropped it in her Gucci bag that must have cost the earth. She batted her contact-blue eyes at Hollis. “Bet I get a nice commission when I sell that big, old house for you.” She added a suggestive wink, then grabbing the dress, twirled around, the soft pink-chiffon skirt flowing around her legs. “And this dress is used, so it’s cheap. I’ll look divine.”
My skin got all tingly the way it did when I saw a wolf spider the size of a paper plate on the wall. At times like that, I’d give anything to own a shotgun. I had the same urge now. I’d shred the dress before I let Cupcake have it!
My stomach growled, reminding me that I couldn’t eat shredded chiffon. I quoted a price for the dress that was double what I paid for it on sale, knowing Cupcake would agr
ee just for the satisfaction of having what was mine. She’d already gotten my husband and my car.
“Seems a bit steep for a used dress,” Hollis groused as he forked over the money.
“I only wore it once.” I shoved the bills into my jeans pocket and mentally paid the electric bill and ordered a Conquistador sandwich from Zunzi’s. I handed Cupcake the dress and watched her drive off with my life.
I went out to the front porch, and since I’d sold the wrought-iron furniture, I sat on the top step that could do with a fresh coat of paint. I could do with a good pity cry except two women hustled up my brick sidewalk as if on a mission. One was dressed in leopard print; the other had on neon lipstick and a black miniskirt that looked more like a low, wide belt.
“We’re here for the deals,” leopard print said with a big toothy smile. “Chantilly sent out a tweet.” She read from her iPhone. “Mighty fine clothes at real good prices at 310 East Gaston. Louis V for dirt cheap.” She looked at my house numbers. “Yep, this is the place, all right. Got any more of those Louis Vuitton purses? I got a thing for Louis.”
This was a lot more action than I expected. God bless, Chantilly.
“What about a Kate Spade?” I suggested, thinking that maybe, perhaps, with a little luck and good friends, selling my clothes could develop into something more. Neon lipstick shook her head, her lower lip in a confident pout. “Kate Spade is yuppie. It’s what all those bony women at the country clubs carry. It goes with their expensive new boobs and bratty kids. I’m into real class, the good stuff.”
I didn’t have fake boobs or kids, and I had a Kate Spade purse. But who am I to argue with neon or animal print and ready cash? “What about an Armani jacket, size 8?”
“Now you’re talking, sugar.” And by the afternoon, I had a few more customers and enough sales to pay a fourth of the taxes on Cherry House. Maybe the City of Savannah would be happy with a fourth of the money since the house was only a fourth restored. Borderline starvation was rotting my brain.