Iced Chiffon

by Duffy Brown

  “Who were those people in and out of your place all afternoon?” Auntie KiKi asked as I dragged myself into her kitchen, hunting for food. She’d just put in new marble countertops and painted the walls daffodil yellow. Eyelet curtains hung at the bay window, and there were matching cushions on the six chairs around the mahogany table, which was as old as the house.

  I knew there were excellent homemade chocolate chip–oatmeal cookies in the golf-ball cookie jar and snagged six, stuffing one in my mouth. “Customers,” I mumbled around a mouthful of crumbs. “Real honest–to–goodness customers, with cash in hand. Chantilly’s a genius.”

  “Do you think it’ll last?”

  I glanced at the clock on KiKi’s Viking stove. “It lasted a few hours, and that’s a lot better than what I had going on this morning with all bills and no income.”

  The sudden sugar rush resuscitated my powers of observation, and I realized KiKi was not wearing one of her midcalf, flowing dance skirts but a teal scoop-neck dress and Grandma’s pearls that had been in our family since before the unfortunate Northern aggression. “Wow, where are you off to tonight all spiffed up?”

  KiKi bit her bottom lip, smudging her lipstick. She looked down at the Savannah Times open on the table, the front page sporting a picture of some Atlanta TV personality covering the Homes and Gardens Tour in Savannah. I remembered KiKi was going to the opening party at the Telfair Museum, just like Hollis and Cupcake, and I wasn’t. I felt like the kid in Home Alone, when everyone went off to have fun, and he got left behind.

  “You look great, you really do. Love that dress. Terrific color—it shows off your eyes and hair.” And I meant every word.

  Auntie KiKi put her arm around me, giving a little squeeze. “It’s just a stupid affair, Reagan, honey,” she said in a light voice, the kind meant to console and make something really neat seem trivial because you weren’t included. Auntie KiKi was a good auntie. “We’re only going because it benefits the museum, and Putter wants to meet Raimondo Baldassare, that landscape architect.”

  “You’re going to have Raimondo redo your gardens? You already have azaleas the size of a bus.” Everyone wanted a garden by Raimondo. Those lucky enough to get him won the prizes on the Homes and Gardens Tour. The man was also deliciously gorgeous. Just having that yummy Italian in your petunias was worth the price of a garden. “I bet he’s booked for a year.”

  “I promised Putter a putting green in the backyard for his birthday.”

  Everyone in Savannah called my uncle Putter. It was a fitting nickname for a certifiable golf nut who carried a putter wherever he went, including church, the Piggly Wiggly, his rounds at the hospital, and no doubt the cocktail party this evening. KiKi said it was in case a golf ball suddenly dropped to earth and he had to save the city by sinking an eagle.

  Savannah was all about the Georgia Bulldogs, fried everything, extra-dry martinis, and golf. The order of importance depended on who you were and how much you’d had to drink at the time.

  Feeling sorry for myself, I grabbed KiKi’s hand. “Promise me you’ll say you had a horrible time tonight, the tomato sandwiches were soggy, and Cupcake got drunk and passed flat out on the dance floor.”

  “You bet, sweet pea.” Auntie KiKi kissed my forehead like she did when I was six and had the chickenpox. She pulled a Tupperware bowl of leftover meat loaf from the fridge and handed it over. “Like Cher says, ‘Get yourself a deep breath and don’t take any of this too seriously now, you hear.’” She paused. “I could lend you some money just for a little while till you get back on your feet.”

  “Thanks, but I’m still standing.” Sort of. I tucked the meat loaf under my arm and trudged across the front yard to my house. It was easy to see where KiKi’s lawn ended and mine began. She had Kentucky bluegrass, and I had Savannah dandelions.

  THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE UP WITH MY HEAD BY the empty meat-loaf container. Did I really eat in bed? Then I remembered that my dining-room table was covered with clothes, and I’d sold the little green and yellow bistro table in the kitchen to AnnieFritz and Elsie Abbott, who lived on the other side of Cherry House in a small Greek Revival left to them by their cousin Willie. Three years ago, Cousin Willie dropped dead over at the Pirates’ House after too many ham and redeye-gravy dinners and not enough Lipitor.

  AnnieFritz and Elsie were retired schoolteachers who hired themselves out on the Q.T. as professional mourners. The only social event more important in Savannah than a big, fancy wedding was a big, fancy funeral. Every undertaker in town knew that no one got folks weeping and wailing like the Abbott sisters.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I yelled, realizing it was the doorbell that had jarred me awake. I stumbled my way down the stairs as the chime bonged again. Maybe Chantilly sent out more tweets. I opened the front door to Raylene Carter, who bustled past me in a gorgeous ivory suit.

  “What do you want for that bronze fountain you have in your backyard?” She pointed out the rear window. “Last night at the museum, I heard you were in a pinch and needing money. You bought that fountain a few years back from Raimondo Baldassare, and I need it now at my place.”

  Raylene’s mouth pinched into a tight pout. “You look a fright, Reagan. Your mamma would be sorely upset if she saw you in this condition. She is a judge, after all. You should keep up appearances for her sake”—Raylene glanced around at the emptiness—“no matter how dire your circumstances happen to be. Now, I need the fountain right quick before they review my gardens for the tour at noon.”

  Looking important, she fluffed her hair. “I intend to win again this year, and I want something new and exciting so people won’t go spreading those awful rumors that I don’t deserve to win Best of Show like I always do.” She took out her checkbook.

  Up until the checkbook, I was contemplating how to toss Raylene out of my house on her Chanel-clad butt. “Seven hundred dollars.” And I never blinked an eye.

  Raylene opened and closed her mouth, landed-fish style, then finally managed, “Why that’s just plumb ridiculous.” And it was, but it was equally ridiculous that her gardens won every year on the tour. Not that her place wasn’t exquisite, but so were others.

  “You’re taking advantage,” Raylene muttered while scribbling a check. “I’m not hauling that thing in my Escalade. For this price, I expect delivery to my house, and I want it right quick. And heavenly days, fix yourself up before you come around. What will people think if they see you like this? You look like a ragpicker.” She stopped at the door. “Is it any wonder Hollis went looking elsewhere?” She left quickly, and this time I was the one doing the landed-fish expression.

  How could she say those things to me? So I’d hit a rough patch. Everyone hits a rough patch from time to time. Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror, with hair sticking out in all directions and meat-loaf juice on my T–shirt. I bit back a scream.

  I did the ten-minute shower, then yanked on my white skirt from Target and the blue blouse KiKi gave me for my birthday, all the while thinking of how to get the fountain to Raylene. I had sold my car just last month to cover the cost of a leaky roof, and KiKi took her mother–in–law to breakfast every week like a good daughter–in–law should. If I asked my mother to borrow her Caddy, that would open up the whole Why are you selling your things? discussion.

  Gloria Summerside was widowed when I was two. She was sharp, smart, and savvy and told me, “For the love of God do not marry Hollis Beaumont.” She also told me not to buy the Lexus with only his name on it no matter what he said about deducting it from business expenses for tax purposes. I can still see the expression on her face when I told her I’d signed the prenup. She told me I’d clearly lost my mind, and as I look back on the whole marrying-Hollis ordeal, I realize she was absolutely right.

  I was a pushover for Hollis, the older, handsome man who was really, really good in bed. Mamma was known in judicial circles as Guillotine Gloria, and no one pushed her around.

  I’d paid a lot of mon
ey for that stupid Lexus, and I was going to use it! I’d put the fountain in the trunk, tie down the door, and motor my way over to Raylene’s. Hollis Beaumont the third would just have to live with it, no matter how divorced we were. The lying, cheating, fornicating bastard with bleached hair owed me that much.

  I grabbed my handbag and charged out the front door.

  Chapter Two

  “HI, IdaMae,” I said as I entered Hollis’s real-estate office on East Wayne. The white clapboard bungalow sported green shutters, neat gables, a brick sidewalk, and window boxes filled with wilted pansies. IdaMae had never married, and she’d been with Hollis since the day he opened the agency, twenty years ago. She was more family than secretary, and I swear the woman could make anything grow in those window boxes. This year Cupcake commandeered the job.

  “Well, bless my soul. Reagan, is it really you?” IdaMae’s brown eyes widened, and she put her hand to her bosom in pure delight. “How are you, honey? And how is your mamma getting on these days? I trust she’s doing right well.”

  IdaMae rose from behind her neat desk, her yellow-and-blue cotton-print dress flowing around her like an attractive tent, topped with a white sweater. If Hollis set the AC any lower in the place, it would snow. She hugged me and kissed the air behind my left ear. “I haven’t seen you in ages and ages.”

  It had been about a month, but between friends in Savannah, that was an age. “We need to do lunch and catch up. Next week?” IdaMae beamed her approval, then sobered when I said, “Is Hollis busy? I need to borrow the Lexus, just for a half hour or so. I want to haul something. It’s important, or I wouldn’t be asking. Is he in a good mood?”

  IdaMae drew in a quick breath, making the flowers across her upper half sway back and forth as if caught in a spring breeze. “Oh my goodness, you know how he is about that car of his. You’d think the man gave birth to it the way he acts. Janelle drove it all day yesterday though. That girl’s got him eating out of her palm—I swear she does. Anything she wants, she gets…usually.”

  IdaMae leaned close enough that I could smell Orange Blossom, the fragrance of choice of a true Southern belle, even if the belle was nearly fifty and her family had fallen on hard times and been forced to surrender their membership to the Oglethorpe Club. “Word has it Hollis and Janelle had a spat at that cocktail party last night. She made a scene right there in front of everyone and then drove off in her car, leaving Hollis standing by himself in the parking lot and mad as a hornet. I’m not one for sorting out dirty laundry in public, mind you, but I sure wish I could have seen that with my own two eyes.”

  “And you should have been there, IdaMae.” Hollis and I had taken her to the Homes and Gardens Telfair cocktail party for years, just as we had her over for Christmas dinner and celebrated her birthday at the Pink House, which just happened to be her favorite restaurant. Then Cupcake came into the picture, and life as we knew it ceased to exist.

  “When I asked where Janelle was this morning, Hollis said he hoped to never lay eyes on the woman again. Then he stormed into his office and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows; can you imagine? I made arrangements to have the Lexus detailed this afternoon as a little surprise and cheer him up a bit. Right now, he’s meeting with Reverend Franklin.” IdaMae nodded to the front conference room. “I think the reverend’s soliciting donations for his family-values campaign. He dropped off some papers yesterday. He’s such a fine man. He was good to my mamma when she was sick over at the nursing home. Came to see her every week.”

  “Family values? Hollis?” I rolled my eyes so far back in my head that I saw where my ears connected.

  “Franklin’s a friend of the Beaumonts, and you know that his wife is Hollis’s second cousin. Family counts for plenty, and nowadays money’s money. I don’t think the reverend and Janelle much like each other, though. When he called to see if Hollis was going to be in this morning, he asked if Janelle would be on the premises. I told him she never comes in before eleven.”

  A sly smile made its way across IdaMae’s face. “You know, I’ll just go see if the Lexus key is in Hollis’s jacket. You could use the car and get it back here right quick. It’s parked out back, and he wouldn’t even know it was gone now, would he? We’ll make this work for you, honey. That’s what friends are for.” She went after the key.

  I didn’t need Hollis upset that I was using his car as a delivery van. I wanted to keep him in Zen mode till he signed over Cherry House. Smiling, IdaMae came back and dropped the key in my hand. “Be careful now, you hear?”

  AS I DROVE DOWN HABERSHAM THE SMELL OF FINE leather and the feel of an electronically cooled seat chilling my derriere made me realize just how much I’d missed this car. Right now I missed any car. I pulled up next to the gnarled cherry tree in full bloom that gave the house its name. The aroma was incredible, the tree a bouquet of pink and white, and half the reason I persuaded Hollis to buy the house years ago.

  The other half was that I’d loved this house since I was a kid, riding my bike by it when visiting Auntie KiKi. I watched it deteriorate bit by bit, and I knew I could save it. The fact that I’d never hammered or screwed or sawed a thing in my life didn’t deter my enthusiasm. It should have.

  Auntie KiKi scurried out the front door waving her hands in the air. “Where in the world have you been?” she panted, leaning in through the open car window, her cheeks flushed. “When I got home from breakfast, there were three people waiting on your porch ready to shop, of all things! They said they got one of those tweets.” She tsked, the universal sound of exasperated Southern women everywhere. “Whatever happened to the days when you got a nice phone call from a friend telling you what was what?” she lamented. “You have customers in your dining room, and I have a waltz lesson with Bernard in ten minutes.” She heaved a weary sigh.

  Bernard Thayer was seventy, had no rhythm and less coordination, had been Mr. Weather on Savannah TV for thirty years, and was determined to wind up on Dancing with the Stars. KiKi thrust a wad of bills at me. “I went and got stuff from my own closet to sell to spruce up your inventory. My black-and-white coat that’s gotten too small somehow went for thirty bucks.” She blinked. “What in the world are you doing with the Lexus?”

  “I sold that fountain in the backyard to Raylene Carter for a small fortune. Now I have to deliver it as well as get the car back before Hollis knows I took it. I sort of didn’t tell him.”

  “Oh, honey, grand theft auto—your mamma will be so proud.”

  I ignored the possibility and popped the trunk. “Take a look-see at how much room we have. Hollis stores his real-estate junk in there.”

  “We?”

  I grabbed Old Yeller and rummaged for keys to the shed as I headed for the backyard. “I’ve got a cart, and we can haul the fountain and—”

  “Sweet Jesus in heaven! Uh, Reagan, honey,” KiKi called, her finger crooked at me in a come-here gesture. “We have junk, a great big pile of it.”

  “We’ll dump it on the lawn,” I said hurrying back to the car to help unload. “If I have to hire movers, I won’t make any money at all, and we’re running short on time and…Holy mother of God!” My gaze landed on Cupcake, face up, eyes wide open, and dead as Lincoln right there in Hollis’s trunk.

  KiKi and I stared, neither of us breathing. KiKi finally whispered, “She doesn’t look nearly as good in the pink chiffon as you do.”

  “Maybe because she has blood in her hair and is rolled up in plastic like a hot dog in a bun.” I made the sign of the cross for disrespecting the dead.

  “There is that.” KiKi sounded faint and slowly slumped to the curb. We sat together holding hands, trunk still wide open like a casket at a viewing. “You wouldn’t happen to have a martini in that purse of yours, would you?”

  A woman in a poison-green tank top, white jeans, and stilettos hustled out of my house, her tiny heels clacking on the brick walkway. “Is that more clothes in the trunk? I bet it is,” she giggled. “Let me at it.”

>   “Don’t look in there,” I said in a rush, putting up my hand to stop her.

  She sidestepped around. “No way! I get first dibs and…Lord have mercy!”

  Savannah tends to get real religious during times of great anxiety. Stiletto Girl slapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes the size of duck eggs. She ran back inside as fast as her teetering heels would allow. There were a few screams from my dining room and sirens approaching.

  “How could Cupcake be dead?” I wondered aloud, trying to make sense of all this. “A few times I’ve wished her demise, but this is for real. What is she doing in Hollis’s trunk?”

  “Not much, honey,” KiKi said in a far-off voice. “Not much at all.”

  Two cruisers slid to a stop, and my dandelion front yard was overrun with blue uniforms, a lot of nosy neighbors, and gaping customers. A woman about five feet tall and just as wide, dressed in polyester navy pants and a white wash-and-wear blouse, introduced herself as the lead detective and told me and KiKi to move, as the police needed access to the car.

  Still holding on to each other and averting our eyes from the Lexus, we staggered our way to the porch. The detective asked if I knew the woman in the trunk. When I said her name was Cupcake, the detective gave me an exasperated look and took a bottle of water from her purse, which was even larger than mine.

  She handed me the water, then walked over to AnnieFritz and Elsie Abbott, who were standing by the cherry tree. They must have had better answers because they didn’t get nasty looks or water, and the detective was scribbling like mad in her little brown book. My guess was the sisters called the cops. Nothing happened in Savannah that they didn’t know about in under ten minutes flat.

  Auntie KiKi sipped the water. “Hollis and Cupcake had a humdinger of a fight at the museum last night.”

  I glanced at the car’s license plate, with “HB3” on it, for Hollis Beaumont the third. “I heard. You don’t really think that Hollis would actually—”