by Duffy Brown
“Good grief, doesn’t anyone in this city sleep?”
KiKi started down East Gaston and turned onto Abercorn. “We can sleep when we’re dead; right now there’s stuff going on. Spill it.”
I couldn’t tell KiKi that Boone wanted me off the case because she already thought I was off the case, at least the dangerous part. “He saw my light on is all.”
“That’s the best you got?”
“I’m hungry, I haven’t had lunch, and I’m off to look at Urston Russell’s smelly shoes. Give me a break.” KiKi pulled to a stop in front of a neat bungalow on Liberty. Even if KiKi didn’t know the address, I could have picked it out. Urston may not be the most handsome of men and might be involved in something he shouldn’t be, but he and the Lord above sure could grow flowers. The front yard was pure Southern garden with old favorites like Georgia Blues, mountain laurels that framed the house, a gnarled pink dogwood, and splashes of daffodils in every color and combination of yellow and white. “Mercy,” KiKi and I said together in complete awe.
We climbed the mossy stone steps, which gave the house a cottage–in–the-woods feel, and used the well-worn brass pineapple knocker.
“KiKi, Reagan,” Urston greeted us as he opened the door, then stood aside to let us pass. “How is Putter these days?” Urston asked KiKi, then turned to me with, “I trust your mamma is doing well.”
We followed him out to the back patio, which was overflowing with more tulips, hyacinths, and clematis and a stone bench and birdbath. I asked Urston where the powder room was, then headed off as he and KiKi talked about her backyard plans. Getting lost in a small house was tough to do. I eyed the bathroom at the far end of the hall and entered what looked to be the master bedroom, covered in flowers on steroids.
The pink hydrangea drapes matched the hydrangeas on the bedspread complimented the ivy on the wallpaper and the roses in the rug. A ceramic daisy lamp sat on the dresser next to matching candlesticks. I felt a little dizzy with all the patterns till I spied a red notebook on the antique cherry desk in the corner. It was the notebook, the one that held all Urston’s notes from judging, the notebook that said who was winning Best of Show so far. It wasn’t under lock and key but sitting right out there in the open air.
Not fair. I could resist broccoli and succotash and those Croc shoes. But I never met a sandwich or flip-flops I didn’t want to try out, and now the red binder had that same tempting pull. What were the scores for best garden so far? Who’d win this year? There were others on the committee making the decisions, but everyone knew it was Urston’s opinion that mattered most and swayed the other judges to think as he did.
Maybe a little peek inside? What harm could one little peek do? I wouldn’t blab, I could keep a secret, and it wasn’t as if my garden was in competition unless tallest dandelion and most robust crabgrass happened to be categories. I picked up the corner and opened the notebook to…nothing? Not one note or photo or sketch or comment. Blank. No impressions on the paper suggesting other pages were written on, then taken out. What kind of judging notebook was this? Maybe a decoy, but that made no sense with it being here in the security of Urston’s own bedroom.
Maybe Urston had a photographic memory and knew the gardens that well without making notes? That seemed possible, but then why carry around his notebook at all? I fanned all the pages to check for notes in the back, and a computer printout slid to the carpet. Aqueduct, one mile, claiming purse fourteen-hundred dollars, four-year olds and up, Sally Girl.
I was not exactly the Martha Stewart of the garden world, but even I knew this was not flower talk and that Aqueduct was not so much a Roman waterway but a racetrack.
I didn’t have time to think about this now. I needed to look for shoes. I tiptoed over to the closet and figured that if flowers fell out when I opened the door, I wouldn’t be surprised. When I opened the door, there was nothing but clothes and shoes like any other walk–in closet. Women’s stuff on the right, men’s on the left, and a pair of brown loafers on a rack below. I hunkered down, balanced Old Yeller on my knees, and pulled off the right shoe to get a look at the side. It had the telltale black smudge that I saw at Raylene’s, all right. So, it was Urston talking to Raylene. He also paid off Cupcake at the Telfair. Raylene, Urston, and Cupcake were connected. But why? Over what? And was it enough to murder someone?
I understood that Franklin would lose his congregation and probably his wife and family if his shenanigans with Sissy got out. That gave him lots of motive to get rid of Cupcake, but what would Urston and Raylene lose?
“What are you doing in here?” hissed a female voice towering over me.
I yelped and fell back on my behind. Old Yeller slid to my chest, and I dropped the shoe on the floor. I gazed up at Belinda Russell, who looked like my third-grade teacher when I drew a devil face on her grade book. Belinda growled, “What do you think you’re doing?”
I could go with the lost–in–your-house premise, except I was lying in her closet with her husband’s shoes. “I’m sorry to be here without asking anyone, but my uncle admired Urston’s loafers at the garden party last night, and I wanted to get him a pair for his birthday.”
Belinda lips thinned. She wasn’t buying it. “Urston said you and KiKi were coming over to talk about recommendations for her back gardens. You could have asked Urston about the shoes then; wouldn’t that have been easier than sneaking around my house?”
KiKi was right. I needed to get better at lying. Belinda’s eyes knit together in thought. “I should have you arrested; what would your mother think of that, and why does she let you run around with hair like that?”
“Raylene was talking to Urston at her party last night, and I noticed Urston’s shoes is all.”
Uh–oh. As soon as I babbled the words, I knew I’d given away too much information, connecting Urston and Raylene. Belinda’s eyes cut to the notebook on the desk, and little red blood vessels strained in the white part of her eyes. She picked the candlestick off the dresser and shook it at me. “Get out of here, and mind your own business!”
Thoughts of Miss Scarlet in the bedroom with the candlestick flashed though my brain. “I should go.”
“And don’t come back!”
I pushed myself up, snatched my purse, then edged past Belinda, still holding the candlestick. “Tell Auntie KiKi I’ll see her back at the shop.”
“That old bat probably had something to do with you snooping around here in my house. Everyone knows you two are thick as thieves.”
I felt a few blood vessels of my own start to pop. “Auntie KiKi is not an old bat. She came here for a nice visit, and I was admiring your décor and took a look at the shoes. That’s all there is to it.” I did the pregnant pause thing for effect. “Unless, of course, that’s not all. Is there more?” This time I cut my eyes to the notebook. “Are you and Urston going to the wake at the Marshall House tonight for Janelle Claiborne? Heard tell it’s going to be a real wingding affair.”
Belinda’s face went white, and her jaw clenched tight. “Why should we go? Dear Lord, we didn’t know Janelle. Not at all, except for the Homes and Gardens Committee, of course. Just the committee.”
Those were a lot of words for a simple yes or no answer. At least I wasn’t the only one who babbled when nervous. Belinda following, I headed down the green hall, which was stenciled with big, white magnolia blossoms, then stepped out onto the porch. The door slammed behind me, making the pineapple doorknocker bounce. I sat on the bottom stone step, next to the dogwood, to think about what had just happened.
I knew what Cupcake had on Franklin, but what did she have on Urston and Raylene? She definitely had something because Urston gave her money, and Raylene was involved. My guess was Raylene paid off Urston to win Best of Show. I had no proof of that, just a hunch from seeing the blank notebook.
Dinah Corwin made no bones about being tickled to her toes that Cupcake had bought the farm, but why were Big Joey and the boys overjoyed Cupcake had joined the heavenly
choir? Why did they care that some uptown chickie was dead? So many questions, so few answers, and all the while Walker Boone racked up big bills I’d have to pay.
A bus stopped farther down on Liberty. I had time before the Fox reopened and could hop on down to the Piggly Wiggly and get groceries, or I could catch the bus going the other direction and visit the heartland of Big Joey and friends and maybe get some answers. I’d never take KiKi to that part of town, and I shouldn’t go there either, but what the heck. It wasn’t a dark night in the pouring rain, where anything could happen. It was noon, and the sun was shining, birds chirping, and not a cloud in the sky. How scary could the hood be in broad daylight? It wasn’t as if I wanted to horn in on the boys’ territory. In fact, I was only marginally sure there was a territory, and that hinged on gossip involving an infamous tattoo and a badass lawyer.
If Big Joey saw fit to converse with AnnieFritz Abbott he’d do the same with me, right? All I wanted to know was what Cupcake did to tick him and his buddies off. Whatever it was, a little voice added inside my head, I had to be real careful not to do the same thing. There were hornets’ nests, and then there were sincere and downright dangerous hornets’ nests.
Chapter Eight
“YOU’RE sure this is where you want to get off?” the bus driver asked me as she pulled to a stop at Ogeechee and Seventeenth. Shaking her head in disbelief, she looked me over head to toe. “Girl, this here is not a place where you need to be this afternoon.”
“I’m doing research.”
“Try Google.” The hinged door wobbled closed, and the bus lumbered off in a gray cloud. I started down the street, holding tight to the theory that nothing bad would happen in broad daylight under a blue sky with spring flowers, except there was a definite absence of flowers. The run-down frame houses were surrounded by red mud and sand instead of grass, and the sun hid behind the trees. Seventeenth Street was no–man’s–land empty. None of the boys were out showing off do–rags and tats. Guess they liked their afternoon nappy time to rest up for evening activities of beating other gangs to a pulp. I felt like a fish at an alligator farm.
“Yo, white woman. You lost?” said a voice behind me. Least I think that’s what the voice said. I was distracted by the sensation of every hair on my body standing straight on end. I turned and faced the heart tat Elsie Abbott had described, except no shirt sleeve hid the full inscription. Pay dirt! My eyes traveled up a rock-solid ebony chest with more tattoos to the beefier, African-American version of Walker Boone. “Big Joey?”
“Who want to know?”
Some idiot from the Victorian District trying to save her house. “I was hoping you could help me.”
Rocking back, Big Joey folded his arms, his biceps bulging even more. He gave me a smile I doubted he gave to Elise Abbott. “What you have in mind, and if you don’t think of nothing, bet I can.”
“Last night you were talking to a friend of mine at the Holstead funeral, and you happened to mention that Cupca—Janelle Claiborne wasn’t exactly a friend of yours and you were glad she was history.”
“You mean dead.” Big Joey said the word like he meant it.
I swallowed and nodded.
“Your friend talks too much.”
“You have no idea.”
Big Joey took a step toward me, and my stomach jumped all the way up my throat. “I’m a friend of Walker Boone.” Amazing what pops out of my mouth when I’m scared and think name-dropping might save my behind. A smile pulled at the corner of Big Joey’s mouth, a gold tooth catching a stray bit of sunlight.
“You not his type. He’s into classy broads, not ones with striped hair and a cheap purse.” Big Joey gave a quick look around. “What’s your ride?”
“That would be the Chatham Area Transit system. I’ve sort of fallen on hard times.” I raked limp curls from my face, nervous perspiration sticking hair to my forehead and neck. “My ex is accused of killing Janelle, and he’s going to sell my house to pay Walker Boone to defend him. The only good thing I got out of a marriage was that house that I’ve rehabbed. I need to find the real killer myself so I can keep my place.”
“You’re here thinking you can get me to confess to murder so you got a place to live?” Big Joey laughed through a string of swear words that would do HBO proud. This brought some of the boys out onto porches to enjoy the afternoon festivities.
“You hear things that I don’t,” I rushed on. “I just need a name of someone who you think might have done the deed.”
“Do the murder.”
“Yeah, murder.”
“You are one mighty stupid woman.”
This time the boys laughed. Big Joey took another step toward me. I took two steps away, sweat slithering down my back. “What if someone tried to take your car or something you valued, something you worked on to make it yours. Wouldn’t you fight to keep it?”
The grin returned, along with a few more colorful expletives. “I get the point, and ’cause I do, I’m gonna tell you to get out of here instead of show you the way myself.”
“What about Janelle?”
“She got what she deserved, but not from me or the boys here. She was in a bad business that caught up with her.”
“Blackmail.”
“And she do it to the wrong person. Make a lot of people unhappy.” Before I asked another question, Big Joey grabbed my arm. I gasped. My heart stopped. He turned me around and gave me a little shove. “Git.”
End of interview. The porches emptied, the boys drifting back inside, matinee show over. I headed up Seventeenth, amazed that I didn’t have to sit down to keep from fainting dead away.
“Good luck with that house. Tell Boone hey.”
If Big Joey had fired warning shots over my head, he wouldn’t have surprised me more. I stopped and glanced back. “Thanks for the information.” I bit at my bottom lip. “Why did Boone leave here? Why become a lawyer?” I don’t know where that came from; the words just came out all by themselves.
Big Joey pulled a cigarette or something smokable from his jeans. “That best come from Boone.” Joey lit up, then took a deep drag. His demeanor relaxed now, and our eyes locked across the pockmarked street. He gave me a nearly indiscernible nod. I figured the one thing we had in common, and the reason I was leaving with all body parts intact, was that we both knew Walker Boone. That didn’t exactly make us bosom buddies, but we had a connection all the same.
I caught the bus, the driver as surprised picking me up at this location as the other driver had been at dropping me off. While getting chauffeured around the city, I thought about Big Joey and his band of merry men. I wasn’t an authority on gangs, but I thought Big Joey was telling the truth that he hadn’t murdered Janelle. There was no reason to lie to me. It’s not like I was the police, so confessing to me was pretty much like bragging rights. My guess was the boys did that every chance they got—they didn’t strike me as the humble type. If they did the deed—the murder—they would have gloated.
Another thing to consider was that stuffing a body in a car trunk didn’t smack of gang ritual. I imagined they had far more creative ways of disposing of a body in our geographic location, which was surrounded by swamps, marshes, and an active alligator population.
On the other hand, the idea of Urston, Raylene, and Belinda wrapping a body in plastic and stuffing it in a Lexus made a certain kind of sense. It was neat, clean, and a snobby ride. I exited at Gwinnett and crossed the street to the Kroger’s grocery store. I grabbed a bag of doggie kibble, a few groceries to keep body and soul together, and a Perky Blonde hair-dye kit. I hoofed it back to the Fox by one thirty. Two customers waited on the porch with clothes to consign. I apologized for being late and brewed the last bit of cinnamon coffee I had to make up for my tardiness. Happy customers spent money; at least that was the theory. Too bad today it wasn’t a reality.
After they left, I went outside and looked under the porch for Bruce Willis. Two eyes stared back. I heard thumping sounds from a wagging tail h
itting the ground. Bruce seemed happy. Not quite ready to give up his monastic life under the floorboards, but better. I filled a bowl with food and refilled the one with water as the sultry beat of a rumba drifted out from KiKi’s house. That meant she had made it back from Urston’s without the wrath of Belinda doing her in and that the couple taking dance lessons was older. My guess was the Paxtons were doing one last run-though for their twenty-fifth-anniversary shindig out at Sweet Marsh Country Club tonight. Not that I was invited. I would have been if I was still Mrs. Hollis Beaumont the third, but now instead of rubbing shoulders with the rich and mighty at the club, I exchanged pleasantries in the hood.
I stayed open until seven thirty, hoping to catch the working-girl crowd, but it didn’t happen. Business was spotty, bills were due, and I had an extra mouth to feed. I needed to advertise. Problem was, advertising cost a lot of money. I ran upstairs to get ready for the wake and lose the skunk look. When gang members saw fit to comment on the condition of my hair, it must be really bad.
I draped my bathroom with an old sheet to catch splashing dye. The place was now celery green, with Irish-cream-colored tile and a claw-foot tub that I found dirt cheap over in Garden City. The room used to be rust brown, and not from a paint job but from dripping water, with old fixtures dangling precariously on a cord from the ceiling, crumbling tile, and a mildew smell that would knock your socks off.
I worked goo into my hair per the directions and spent the time needed to turn me perky blonde painting my toenails Hot Chili Pepper red. Somehow, before, I’d always managed to scrounge up enough money from the bottom of my purse, under my car mats when I had a car, between the cushions of my sofa when I had one of those, to afford to get my hair done by Jan, down at the Cutting Crew. Jan was a hair diva, her name mentioned in reverent tones. No one did hair like Jan. Those days were behind me. At least until I could get the Prissy Fox to turn some sort of real profit and secure Cherry House from the clutches of Walker Boone.