“Those boys!” I said, smiling fondly.
I hadn’t always viewed “the boys”—aka Manny and Cookie, my across-the-square neighbors—with affection.
Manny Alvarez was a retired landscape designer from Delray Beach, Florida, and Cooksey “Cookie” Parker had been a Broadway chorus boy in his youth, before working in retail in New York. When they’d first opened their upscale gift and interiors shop a year or so ago, I’d viewed them as interlopers, out to steal my best merchandise lines and snake away my valued customers.
Babalu was just across the square from Maisie’s Daisy, the antique shop that I operate out of the carriage shop behind my townhouse. I’d started my junking career as a picker—somebody who sources antique and vintage items at estate sales, junk shops, and yes, even a few Dumpsters—and it had taken me years to get up the gumption—and the funds—to open my own shop.
The boys’ over-the-top shop displays grated on my nerves. And let’s face it, I was more than a little jealous of their success, and they were more than a little eager to show a small-town Southern girl how it was done in the big city. Our relationship became even more strained after I won first prize in the downtown historic district’s holiday decorating contest with my Blue Christmas display window, beating out Babalu’s Winter Wonderland tableau.
Eventually, however, we’d become fast friends—and in-laws, sort of, after Jethro fathered a litter of puppies with their dog Ruthie. This year, what with the wedding planning, I’d let my Christmas decorating slide a little, which meant that Manny and Cookie had easily won first place.
The brick storefront of Babalu had been magically transformed into a gingerbread palace, with faux icing swirls and swoops outlining all their building’s architectural details. Giant faux candy canes, red and green gum balls, and chocolate drops bordered the shop window, and two enormous potted Fraser fir trees on either side of the front door were festooned with every kind of candy imaginable.
The tuba players finished their rendition of “Silver Bells” and launched into an oompified version of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” and as we walked inside the shop, a costumed gingerbread boy handed me a cellophane-wrapped cookie—a miniature version of the shop. When Jethro looked up expectantly, the gingerbread boy reached in a basket on the counter and tossed him a dog treat, which Jethro caught in midair.
Although Babalu was thronged with customers, Cookie swooped in and enveloped me in a bear hug as soon as we stepped foot (and paw) in the shop.
He was dressed in camel-colored wool slacks, a fisherman knit sweater with a Burberry plaid scarf looped around his neck, and Gucci loafers.
“Weezie, you bad girl!” he chided. “Manny is in back, in an absolute dither over the flowers. You were supposed to be here hours ago.”
He scooted me through the aisles of the shop and through a swinging door to the stockroom, which now resembled a florist’s warehouse.
Flowers and plants lined every available surface of the room. There were towering buckets of pink lilies, freesias, hollyhocks, stocks and orchids. I counted four full-sized potted pink dogwood trees in full bloom, and buckets and buckets of tightly closed pink tulips.
In the middle of everything, Manny Alvarez stood, wearing a white lab coat, with a pair of garden clippers in one hand and a huge roll of pink silk ribbon in the other.
“Oh my,” I whispered.
Manny beamed. “Isn’t it glorious? Can you believe all this fabulousness will transform your townhouse in one week?”
I blinked. “All of it? Manny, it’s beautiful—but we’re having a wedding, not a coronation. Where do you intend to place all this stuff?”
He waved his hand airily. “Everywhere. The dogwoods will go in those gorgeous urns on either side of your front stoop—I’ll have them all decked out in tiny white lights, of course.”
“Of course,” I echoed.
“Then I’m doing banks of arrangements on your mantel, on that table in your entry hall, your coffee table, and every other flat surface in the parlor. Interspersed with thousands of little white lights and the palest pink wax taper candles. Which reminds me—you need to dig out all those sterling candlesticks of yours. The dining room is going to be my pièce de résistance.”
“Oh?”
“Tell her about the altar,” Cookie urged.
“Shhh!” Manny said. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.” He turned to me. “You don’t mind a surprise on your wedding day, right?”
“As long as it’s a good surprise,” I said cautiously. “But nothing too outlandish, right?”
“Everything will be in perfectly good taste,” Manny said.
I looked around at the avalanche of flower overflowing from every corner of the workroom.
“I like it,” I said hesitating. “I really do. But it’s not very, uh, Christmasy, is it?”
“What? You were expecting some of those hideous foil-wrapped poinsettias like they sell at Kroger? Maybe a ginormous wreath of holly?” He laughed and looked at his partner for reassurance.
“Ugh, poinsettias. So five years ago,” Cookie said. He gestured around the room. “This, darling Weezie, is going to make your wedding the social event of the Savannah season.”
I felt a small twinge of … something. “But Daniel and I don’t really want an event. We just want a lovely, warm, intimate family wedding. You do know we’re only having forty people, right?”
Manny sighed dramatically. “You’re breaking my heart, Eloise. Only forty people to enjoy this masterpiece I’m creating for my favorite couple?”
“I did warn you from the beginning. Nothing too excessive.”
“Who’s being excessive?” Manny asked. “This is simplicity itself. In Miami? This would be considered absolutely spartan.”
“Well…” I started. “How much is all this costing, anyway? I told you, my budget is tiny. Minuscule. We’re saving our money for the trip to Paris in the spring.”
“Do not worry your pretty head about cost,” Cookie put in. “This is our gift to you two.”
“I can’t accept something this extravagant as a gift! All these flowers must have cost thousands and thousands. The blooming dogwood trees—where do you even find dogwoods in bloom in December, anyway?”
“Trade secret,” Manny said coyly. “Anyway, I buy smart and I buy wholesale. And the dogwood trees are only rented. Christmas morning they’ll be on a truck to St. Simon’s Island for some Coca-Cola heiress’s open house.”
“It’s really too much,” I fussed. “I know you two boys mean well, but honestly, I feel terrible. When you got married in New York in the fall, my present was just a silly little cake knife.”
“An antique sterling cake knife,” Cookie corrected.
“In our pattern,” Manny added.
“And we’ll never forget that amazing garden party you gave for us when we got back to town,” Cookie said. “Look, sweetie, neither of us ever had a sister. Manny’s people are dead, and mine are practically fossils. You’re family now, as far as we’re concerned. So we are giving you these flowers as a wedding gift, whether you like it or not. All right?”
“All right,” I said meekly. “But nothing else. And if we could just scale back the teensiest little bit, I’d feel a lot better.”
“Scale back?” Manny shrugged and turned to Cookie. “What ees thees scale back the chica says?” he said, in his best affected Cuban accent.
“Never mind,” I surrendered. “It’s lovely. All of it.” I glanced at my watch. “But I’ve really got to scoot.”
“Ooh, I meant to ask. How was Daniel’s first night at Cucina Carlotta?” Cookie asked. “Was it a smash hit? We want to hear every little detail.”
I felt that ugly twinge of jealousy stabbing my gut. “I don’t actually know,” I admitted. “We haven’t talked yet. But I’m sure he’ll call later.”
“Give him our love,” Manny said. “And tell him not to get any big ideas about stealing you away to the Big Apple.”
/> “I will, and he won’t,” I promised.
Chapter 4
BeBe
A bell chimed from the front office, alerting me that we had a guest, which surprised me a little. It was after three on a Saturday afternoon. Winter is our off-season on Tybee Island, and the Breeze Inn, our small, twelve-room tourist court, charming though it is, doesn’t usually get much walk-in traffic the week before Christmas. We were full up, though, with regulars who return to the island every year for the holidays.
I’d been doing paperwork on the dining room table, but I made my way to the office, and our little dog Jeeves followed right at my heels.
The woman didn’t look like our typical guest. She was older, probably in her early seventies, with white hair cut in a severe bob and serious, no-nonsense eyeglasses. She wore a gray wool skirt that touched below the knee, and a somewhat pilled and frayed navy blue sweater. Definitely not a vacationer, I decided. Anyway, she looked vaguely familiar.
“Hi,” I said brightly. “Can I help you?”
She was still looking around the reception area. Now she seemed to be studying the framed magazine articles from Southern Living and Savannah Magazine touting our cool, retro motel vibe.
“Ma’am?”
The stranger looked up now. She looked down at Jeeves. “What a sweet little dog. Is he a Westie?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Jeeves is the Breeze Inn mascot. If you’re looking for a room, I’m afraid we won’t have anything until the day after Christmas.”
Her eyes were watchful. “Er, no. Actually, I’m looking for Mrs. Richard Hodges.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Richard Hodges,” she repeated a little louder, in case my hearing was off.
It took me a moment to regain my composure. “Mrs. Hodges? I’m sorry. She’s dead. She’s been dead for ages. Twenty years at least.”
“Surely not,” the old lady said. “What a shame. She was so young too.”
“Not really. I never actually met Corinne, but I think she must have been in her late sixties when she passed away.”
The old lady’s lips twitched slightly. For the first time I noticed she carried a file folder under her arm. She opened it now, read from something in the file, then looked up at me. “Corinne? No, you misunderstand. I’m looking for BeBe Loudermilk Hodges—married to Richard Hodges?”
I felt like I’d been punched in the belly. The mere mention of my second husband’s name does that to me. I’d been married to the snake for only a little over a year, and it seemed like a lifetime ago, but that had been enough.
I steadied myself by grabbing hold of the edge of the bamboo reception desk. When I felt calm, I took a deep breath. And then another.
“Why are you looking for this woman, may I ask?”
“It’s personal,” the old lady said. She was still searching my face. “A legal matter.”
A legal matter. That shouldn’t have come as a surprise, not where Richard was concerned.
She was studying the framed Southern Living article again. The lead photograph was of me, standing in the doorway of our own living area, which featured a vintage rattan pretzel sofa slipcovered in a barkcloth fabric with huge pink hibiscus blossoms and fern branches. “Owner BeBe Loudermilk traded the life of downtown businesswoman for funky Tybee Island hotelier,” the photo caption read.
“You’re Mrs. Richard Hodges,” the old lady said. “Aren’t you?”
I returned her steady gaze. “Not anymore. Actually, I never even took the rat’s name for the twenty-seven seconds we were married. I’m still BeBe Loudermilk. So if you’re looking for Richard because he owes you money or skipped out on bond, you’re out of luck. I haven’t seen him for nearly six years. We’re divorced, you know.”
Her watery blue eyes blinked rapidly. “Oh no, dear. I don’t think so.”
* * *
The baby kicked me so hard in the ribs, I could have sworn it knew where all this was headed.
“What did you just say?” I whispered.
“I said you’re not divorced from Richard Hodges.” She held up that file folder again. “That’s actually why I’m here.”
Suddenly I felt very light-headed. The old lady’s face grew blurry and her voice seemed to be coming from a long way away, just a faint echo. I felt myself swaying and my spine seemed to collapse in on itself, like a Slinky.
The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the floor, my back against the reception desk, and the old lady was squatting next to me, patting my hand. She held a wet cloth up to my forehead, and she was holding a cell phone in her hand. Jeeves was sitting on his haunches, whimpering softly.
“Is there somebody I should call?” the woman asked. “I’m afraid I didn’t handle that very well, especially with you, er, in your present condition. Should I get an ambulance or something?”
“No ambulance. I’m all right,” I insisted. “Let’s get back to what you were telling me before I passed out. Something about Richard?”
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting down in a chair or something?”
“Probably. But it could take a while for me to get back on my feet again.”
She held out her hand. “Come on. I’ll help.”
I laughed despite myself. “That’s sweet. But you probably don’t weigh ninety pounds soaking wet. I don’t see how you’re going to haul me up off this floor.”
“You’d be surprised,” she said, a glint in her eye. “I’m stronger than I look. Do you mind if I ask when the baby is due?”
“Not for another month,” I said. “I know, I look like I could drop this kid any second, but my doctor assures me the due date is January 15.”
She stretched out both arms to me. “Grab hold of my elbows. Bend your knees, now. We’ll take it nice and slow.”
We did take it nice and slow, and she was surprisingly strong for her age. Five minutes later, I was seated on that same rattan sofa in our living room, and she was handing me a cup of tea.
“Thank you,” I said, taking a sip. “I don’t think I caught your name.”
“I’m Inez Roebottom,” she said. “Are you feeling any better? I do apologize for nearly sending you into an early labor.”
“I’ll be fine. No contractions. Could we get back to what you were saying before I did my big swoon? Because this can’t be right. Richard and I were divorced right before he went to prison.”
“Only you weren’t divorced,” Inez said gently. “That’s what I was trying to explain.” She brandished the file folder again. “Your husband, Richard Hodges, did have an initial consultation with a lawyer about a divorce. But he never followed through. No divorce decree was ever filed with the court.”
“That can’t be,” I said heatedly. “Richard swore to me that he’d gotten the divorce. He said he owed it to me, after everything he’d put me through. He got the divorce right before he went to prison.”
Inez was still shaking her head. “Men,” she said sadly.
“What’s your involvement in all of this?” I demanded. “How do you know whether or not I’m divorced? Are you a lawyer?”
“I worked for the lawyer Richard Hodges hired to start the divorce proceedings. Howard Roebottom.”
“Your husband?”
“My son. Late son,” she corrected herself. “Howard passed away eight months ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled.
“It was very sudden. Heart attack. His father died three years ago, from the very same thing,” Inez said. “My husband Warren started the firm, and Howard went to work for him right after he got out of law school. I ran the office. For thirty years. Now, I’m just trying to finish closing the office down. Howard had a carton of old, inactive files on a bookcase in the conference room. I was going through them when I found this.” She handed the file folder to me.
I opened it and stared down at the single sheet of paper. I’d left my reading glasses in the other room. The black letters seemed to swim before my eyes and I s
tarted feeling woozy again.
“What does any of this mean?” I asked. “You say there was never a divorce decree filed with the court?”
“I’m afraid not. It happens sometimes. People get angry, decide they want a divorce, see a lawyer, then they cool off and nothing ever comes of it. But in this case, it appears that your husband—“
“Ex-husband,” I said firmly.
“Have it your way,” Inez said. “Richard Hodges came to see my son about getting a divorce. He paid a retainer fee by check, and it appears Howard started the proceedings. But then…” Her voice trailed off.
I already knew where this was heading. “The check bounced, didn’t it?”
“It did. Of course, around that time, your husband’s trial was getting a lot of publicity. It was on television and in the newspapers. I remember being so surprised. He seemed like such a nice young man. Beautiful manners, always dressed in expensive clothes. But the things he did, I remember being shocked. And I don’t shock easily.”
She didn’t have to tell me. My cheeks still burned with the remembered shame of that time.
Richard came from a respected Savannah family. When I met him I was twenty-eight, and I’d been single for several years, following a very brief teenaged marriage to my older brother’s best friend Sandy Thayer. Richard was a successful stockbroker, on his way up the career ladder, or so it appeared.
As it turned out, everything about Richard was a lie, but I didn’t know any of that until too late. I didn’t know he had a secret double life that included swindling his elderly clients by emptying their trust accounts. It wasn’t until I went poking around on his home computer that I discovered the rest of it; the revolting computer porn and the thousands of dollars he’d drained from our joint checking account to pay for phone sex.
After I confronted him with what I’d found, Richard broke down in tears, admitted everything, and begged me to forgive him. As I was walking out the door, he promised to make it up to me by giving me a quick, painless divorce.
The lying scum-sucking bastard.
I was still clinging to straws. “But just because Richard didn’t follow up with your son, that doesn’t mean he didn’t see another lawyer. He probably did. I mean, maybe he got his criminal attorney to do the divorce. Sort of a package deal.”
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