by Duffy Brown
Chapter Fourteen
THE sun was turning Savannah from the pearl gray of dawn to sunny-morning yellow when Boone dropped me off in front of Cherry House. He told me to call if any new suspects surfaced. I told him to eat dirt and die. We’d stayed with Bruce Willis till the vet said Boone and I looked worse than the dog and threw us out.
I sat on the porch, feeling lonely without BW to keep me company and bad at the wretched night he spent at the vet. KiKi shuffled out the front door of her house in a blue-flowered robe and matching fluffy slippers, green cream on her face, eyes peering out raccoon style from the mask of goo. She sat down beside me, drawing close. I could smell the cucumber fragrance of the cream.
“What are you doing up so early?” I asked.
“Putter’s off to a symposium in Atlanta for a few days, and I needed to help him finish packing. The man can’t tell black from blue to save his life. And what are you doing, sitting out here at this hour?” KiKi nodded down the street. “I saw that spiffy red car driving off. Are you making time with the enemy? I hope it was good.”
“Someone poisoned Bruce Willis, Boone took us to the vet, and now he’s using me as bait to find Cupcake’s killer.”
Auntie KiKi looked at me as if I’d sprouted another head. “You’re out of my sight for one little ole night and everything goes right to pot. Who in the world would hurt that sweet dog? How is Boone using you to find the killer? I thought that was his job.”
“I think his job is mostly screwing me over. All Boone needs is to make the jury think someone other than Hollis had a motive to kill Janelle. He thinks the person who is after me is more than likely connected to Janelle’s death. That gives Boone what he needs. I should never have told him about the salami, pepperoni, and anchovies.”
“What’s salami and anchovies got to do with any of this?”
“I sort of broke into his office and he caught me, so I left him a little present in his computer.”
KiKi put her arm around me, the fuzzy part of her robe on my neck comforting. “Why don’t you get a nice hot shower and come over for some eggs?”
“No bald doctors waiting in the wings?”
“No bald doctors, but you do have a dance lesson with Bernard at two.”
Some days I got the bear, and some days the bear got me. I trudged inside, thinking that it was still early morning and I’d already been eaten alive. I started up the steps to my bedroom and stopped on the third step, a weird sort of creepy feeling pushing through my fatigue. Something in the house was off. I had no idea why I thought that, but I did. Maybe because I didn’t just live here; Cherry House and I were a part of each other. I’d fixed rafters, plumbing, electric, floors: you name it, I had my fingerprints on it. Slowly, I turned and looked at the Prissy Fox from up on my perch. Everything in the store seemed the same, from the displays I did the night before to the checkout counter to the clothes I’d hung up when I came back from hounding Baxter.
I took the steps back down and went into the kitchen, dropped my purse on the counter, then held my breath and checked the freezer. Yep, the money was still there. This thing with Bruce Willis had me spooked, that was all. I picked up Old Yeller and started to leave, then stopped. The chair wasn’t under the back-door knob. It was beside it.
I shut my eyes, trying to picture myself doing the nightly ritual of securing the place earlier in the day. It was like taking vitamins; you do it so often you can’t remember exactly from one day to the next. Maybe I forgot the chair. Last night, when I went to the town house, seemed like a hundred years ago.
I was tired, I was hungry, I had eggs waiting, I told myself, feeling better at the thought of hot food until the curtain on the back door fluffed out from the frame. I walked over, my shoes crunching. I pushed the blue gingham aside to a broken window, glass on the floor. I felt cold, numb, violated. Even on the old marred wood, I could make out scrape marks where the chair was worked free from the knob and shoved aside.
Stooping down, I picked up shards, noticing a few drops of blood there as well. Someone cut himself when he reached though the window. This was not a pro job but a person who wanted inside my house. Why?
I started to shake. The why was the same reason they poisoned my dog. Something besides fear stirred in my gut and snaked its way to my vocal cords. I slowly stood and planted my feet firm and put my hands on my hips. I wasn’t exactly a Southern belle, but I’d lived in Savannah all my life and knew a thing or two about being fuming mad.
“I am not putting up with this foolishness any longer,” I yelled. “This is my life, my house, my dog, and I’m telling you flat out—whoever you are, you’re not getting the best of Reagan Summerside.”
I looked around the Fox; there was nothing disturbed there. I stomped my way up the stairs as an act of courage, and also in case anyone was still hanging around. Maybe he or she would jump out the window. I grabbed a shower and pulled on a sweatshirt, jeans, and hiking boots from when Hollis and I decided to be more outdoorsy. That had lasted for all of an hour till we came across a Starbucks and regained our sanity. Today I needed to feel strong, determined, and in charge, and flip-flops weren’t going to do the trick. I needed butt-kickers.
Ten minutes later, I opened the door to Auntie KiKi’s kitchen and the aroma of biscuits, bacon, and coffee. Still in her blue robe but without the cucumber mask, KiKi scurried about, the Abbott sisters at the table, sipping coffee, a gift basket of pastries in front of them. No Southern woman worth her pearls made a morning social call without baked goods.
“Lordy, Lordy,” Elsie Abbott cried when she saw me. She dabbed her eyes with a lace-trimmed hankie. “KiKi just informed us about your poor doggie.”
“What is this world coming to?” AnnieFritz added.
“I had to tell them,” KiKi said, breaking eggs into a blue mixing bowl. “It’s dangerous for all of us on this street when some ornery cuss is out hurting innocent animals.”
“There’s more.” I took a seat at the table and reached for an apple fritter bigger than my hand. “Someone broke into my house last night. They busted out a window in the back door and unlocked it from the outside. I called the police and told them about BW and the break–in. As far as I could tell, nothing was missing. The police said they’d send an officer out later on and keep an eye on the street for us.”
Jaws dropped. KiKi, Elsie, and AnnieFritz stared at me for a full five seconds without saying a word. Considering they were contenders for nonstop gossip awards, that was amazing. Finally AnnieFritz managed, “Things like that never happen around here since the Victorian District started renovations. Twenty years ago, homes were boarded up and sold for next to nothing. Then there were break-ins everywhere. But now that we’ve gone yuppie, everything is peaceful-like.”
That every occupant had enough firepower to arm a small country didn’t hurt either.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with you looking for Janelle Claiborne’s killer, now would it?” Elsie asked, knowing everyone was thinking the very same thing. “We’re all aware that you’re trying to find out who did the woman in so you can get Hollis off.”
AnnieFritz nodded in agreement and added, “Odds on the street are three to one Hollis is guilty as a priest in a whorehouse, but if you think different, honey, that’s your business.”
“Odds? As in betting odds?” KiKi’s eyes were bigger than the yolks in the frying pan on the stove, the concept sinking in.
“Big Joey’s the bank,” Elsie elaborated. “He’s sure Reagan will find the real killer. Big Joey says Reagan Summerside is a woman possessed, or maybe that was obsessed? Anyway, he stands to make what you might call a killing if she succeeds.” AnnieFritz giggled. “I need to be more careful how I choose my words with Janelle gone and a killer on the loose and all. Have to respect those who go before us.” Everyone in the kitchen made the sign of the cross for those already gone and in hopes none of us were next in line.
AnnieFritz said to me, “Sister and I have our money where Big Joey
has his, and that’s right on you, sugar. We figure he’s street-smart and knows his stuff. He was at The Wall last night, and we happened to stop by for takeout after the Schiffer viewing. He remembered us from meeting up at the Holstead casket.”
Elsie said to both KiKi and me, “All that crying and carrying on wears a woman out more than you can imagine, and Sister and I need to keep up our strength on account of we have a gig at a graveside at sundown. It’ll be a two-hankie job for sure.”
No wonder Big Joey helped me get into Boone’s office. He was hedging his bets. Good deed? Ha! I took a gulp of coffee, wishing it was laced with something more than cream. Not only was I doing Boone’s work for him, I was making money for Big Joey and the Abbott sisters.
“I know you’ve been having financial difficulties and all,” Elsie said, handing me another fritter. “There’s no chance you’re moving, now is there? Since you opened the Fox, Sister and I have been dressing fine as peacocks, and business is booming. Seems classy women who know how to wear hats and use a hanky are in high demand these days. The young crowd is reserved and downright boring, not one gut-wrenching sob in the lot of them. No one goes home and talks about a boring funeral; they go home and say, ‘Wasn’t that a mighty fine affair, and ain’t it touching how much Grandma’s gonna be missed?’”
“How would you both like a job at the Fox?” I asked the sisters, hoping to take care of one of my own problems. “If you’re betting on me to win,” I said to Elsie Abbott, “I need time to work the case. I can’t pay you—I’m barely keeping the place afloat—but I can give you 50 percent off anything you’d like to buy.”
Elsie and AnnieFritz exchanged huge grins, their gray eyes sparkling. “You got yourself a deal,” Elsie said, AnnieFritz nodding in agreement. “We’ll come over later on, and you can show us the ropes. Right now we’re off to do our nails and then have our hair done up. We gotta look the part and all. Everyone will be decked out this evening on their way to the garden parties.”
“And we need to find Big Joey and put another hundred on Reagan to win,” Elsie added, and she and AnnieFritz hurried out the back door.
KiKi said to me, “Reagan, honey, they’re betting on you just like a football game. How do you keep getting mixed up in these things?”
“I married Hollis, and the rest is history.”
KiKi served me a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and two biscuits so light they hovered. I took a forkful of eggs, and KiKi sat down and asked, “I suppose you’re dressed like Sarah Palin because it’s bear-hunting season in Savannah?”
I munched the bacon, thinking how much BW would love it. When he came home, we’d have a bacon fest. Maybe bacon wrapped around hot dogs—when I could actually afford bacon, that is. “I’m going to the crime scene and needed some courage to face the place. No one gets courage wearing flip-flops. Boone said the police have enough evidence to convict Hollis, and the case is ancient history. No one will be around.”
“We’re going to break in where Cupcake was…you know…killed?”
“You don’t need to come. Hollis will have a conniption if you get caught.”
“Your mamma will have a conniption if you get caught. I suppose they can have their conniptions together. Cher says, ‘The only two people you answer to in this world are yourself and God,’ and I’m sure the Lord wants to know what’s going on around here as much as anybody. We need to get to the bottom of this, Reagan,” KiKi added, sounding more serious than usual. “Whoever killed Cupcake isn’t about to leave you be.”
No longer hungry, I put my fork down. “That’s what Boone said.”
“For once the man’s right about something,” she said over her shoulder as she walked out of the room.
Fifteen minutes later, Auntie KiKi came back into the kitchen wearing a tweed skirt and tan blazer, her usually frizzed-out auburn hair pulled back in a tight bun, making her eyes crease at the corners. Arms held out, she did a little turn around and said, “It’s a crime-solving outfit. Miss Marple. Very British. I wore it for Halloween a few years back. I think I’ll make scones for dinner.”
Except this was Savannah in April, but the scone idea had merit. If I could wear butt-kickers, KiKi could do tweed. She said to me, “I heard you talking. Did you call to see how BW is?”
“He’s eating and still sleeping a lot. We can pick him up this afternoon.”
“Bet that vet bill set you back a pretty penny.”
“Boone paid.”
“That was darn nice of him.”
“Yeah, Boon’s a regular Georgia peach.” Mostly the pits.
We headed up Lincoln, the morning rush-hour traffic starting to take hold of the city. We turned onto East Hall, a quiet residential street with rehabbed houses and buyers hoping to make a tidy profit in a few years when the homes sold. KiKi pulled the Beemer in front of the “For Sale” house, which had yellow tape across the door. She kept the motor idling. The house was a teal Colonial Revival with black shutters, hand-turned spindles, peeling paint, and a collapsing roof. It needed love and money, lots and lots of money. “It’s still decorated up with crime tape,” KiKi said. “We can’t just mosey on up to the front door and have you kick it in with your clodhoppers.”
“These are hiking boots, and I was thinking something a little more subtle than kicking the door in. Let’s park down the street and walk back this way. The house is on a corner; we’ll cut in through the backyard.”
“We could do this at night when it’s dark, you know. It’s a lot easier to sneak around then without drawing attention.”
“Do you want to look at Cupcake’s blood on the carpet in the middle of the night?”
“Point taken.” KiKi parked on the next block. We got out and strolled casually up East Hall. Birds chirped, flowers bloomed, and we were just two very strangely dressed women out for a morning stroll on a lovely spring day. When we got to the house, we took the side street, and KiKi causally followed me as I edged into the grass. The wood privacy fence across the back property line kept nosy neighbors from calling the cops on us. We made our way between two big hydrangeas that would really be something come May.
“Hi there,” a man’s voice called to us from across the street. It was too friendly to be the police, but we were busted all the same. “You ladies aiming to buy the place?” he asked us as he came our way. “Bet you can get a good deal on this nice, old place. It sure is sweet, don’t you think? It’s got original windows and hand-turned spindles. The inside’s even better, with pocket doors and coved ceilings. Just needs a little TLC is all.”
The man was sixtyish, with gray hair, and clearly more a lover of Southern cuisine and channel surfing than Cooking Light and sit-ups.
KiKi and I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and KiKi gave him one of her reassuring smiles that said all was right with the world and aren’t we two of the sweetest women you ever did see.
“My daughter and I are looking to buy on this street,” KiKi said, lying better than I ever could. “Such a nice area. This house is a great fixer-upper and sort of caught our eye. Has there been trouble of some sort? We couldn’t help but notice the yellow tape on the front door.”
“An unfortunate occurrence,” the man said in reverent, hushed tones.
“Occurrence?”
“Murder.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I’m sure you can get the place right cheap because of it. You’ll probably need to redo the inside, but that shouldn’t be a problem for someone like yourselves.”
He blushed. “I saw you park your BMW down on the next block. My wife and I live across the street and hope that someone who could afford this place would move in right quick and put an end to all the talk and gossip. Having an unfortunate occurrence on the street hurts property values, and the sooner we can put that behind us, the better for us all.”
KiKi and I nodded in sympathy, and I asked, “Is there anyone else looking at the place? Like before the unfortunate occurrence? I mean, they might be after it at a low price as
well.”
“Well now, the very night the occurrence took place, a nice couple showed up, but JeriLynn—that’s my wife, JeriLynn, and I’m Tommy Lee—we knew nothing would come of it.” Tommy Lee held out his hand, and we exchanged shakes. Then Tommy Lee went on, “We knew that couple couldn’t pay what it would take to bring the place up to snuff. You can tell by the cars people drive if they can afford the house or not. That couple drove a Ford Minivan; that’s not the kind of money needed for this-here rehab job. But there was a woman before them who took a look-see. Now she could afford to fix it up if she had a mind; I could tell right off.”
“You knew her?” I asked, hoping for a clue to the mystery woman.
Tommy Lee shook his head. “She was dressed plain, nothing noticeable. I didn’t pay much mind to her at first. Thought she was just another looker. But I think she dressed the way she did to keep the price of the house down so the real estate agent thought she didn’t have much money and would take a low offer if she made one.”
“How do you know she had money?”
Tommy Lee gave us a sly wink. “She drove a real nice car. Parked it way down the street, beyond where you parked today, and she walked all the way back. I didn’t see her car at first, but I watched close when she left. That’s when I noticed the Escalade, late model, white or maybe silver. It was getting dark so it was real hard to tell.”
“Was she in the house long? I mean, do you think she was interested in the place?” I added the last part to sound less like the police grilling a witness and more like a friendly house hunter out for a nice chat and maybe saving property values.
“A few minutes or so is all. Guess she wasn’t happy with the interior. I know it needs renovations. When she left, she kept her head down and kept walking, not one bit pleased about anything. After that, JeriLynn and I headed out to the movies. We wanted to catch that new Michael Moore movie. Jeri loves Michael Moore; she thinks he’s the best director ever. The next morning, Frank—that’s our neighbor to the right, in the nice big Queen Anne—told us about the Lexus he saw in the driveway.”