I shook my head and started the truck. We drove over to Guale without incident, and I was amazed to find a parking spot on the other side of Johnson Square from the restaurant. Normally, on Friday nights, you can’t get within three blocks of Guale.
“My luck is changing,” I said. “Either that or word got out about the shrimp-and-grits fiasco and nobody’s coming tonight.”
BeBe glared at me. “We don’t open for dinner until seven. Come on.”
“I’ll wait here,” I said. “Can’t leave Jethro alone.”
“He can come too,” BeBe said. She snapped her fingers. “Here, Ro-Ro.”
Jethro bounded out of the back of the truck and followed BeBe across the square.
For lack of anything better to do, I locked the truck and went after them. The square was quiet that time of day. Pigeons fluttered around the statue of Revolutionary War hero Nathaniel Greene, and a handful of Japanese tourists stood a few paces away, snapping photographs. A tour bus lumbered around the square, belching black smoke from its muffler.
“Damned tour buses,” BeBe muttered. “The pollution is peeling the paint on the restaurant. It’s outrageous.”
I sniffed the air appreciatively. “Doesn’t smell like pollution to me. Smells like money.”
She grimaced. It was an old Savannah joke. Here we were, living in one of the most beautiful and historic cities in the country, and for as long as anybody could remember, we’d been fouling the air and water around us—first with the pulp and paper plants, and now with all the tourists who’d been drawn to Savannah by an outrageous tattletale true-crime book. Everybody complained that the buses were blocking traffic, creating noise and health hazards, but nobody minded the millions of dollars those tourists were dumping into the local economy.
Guale was on the corner of St. Julian Street. We skirted the front door and went around to the kitchen entrance in the lane. From a hundred yards away we could hear angry voices.
“Uh-oh,” BeBe said. “Wait here. Daniel’s on the warpath again.”
A big black Dodge Ram truck was parked illegally in the lane. I propped myself on the bumper, crossed my arms over my chest, and closed my eyes. My stomach growled. Something wonderful was cooking in that kitchen. It smelled like garlic and rosemary and roasting meat. Maybe BeBe would bring me a doggie bag.
As I was standing there, sniffing and drooling, the kitchen door flew open. A man in black-and-white checked pants and a white chef’s smock strode furiously into the alley carrying a huge stainless-steel vat in one hand. He flung the vat’s contents against the brick wall of the restaurant, sloshing a river of steaming soup into the pavement.
I jumped out of the way and narrowly missed being scalded.
“That’s what I think of your fish stock!” he called angrily over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Who told you to use dried parsley in a stock? Who told you to use black pepper? Who? Did I tell you to use crap like that? Did I?”
“Hey!” I shouted at him. “Watch what you’re doing.”
He whirled around to face me. His white smock was spattered with grease and broth stains. His hair needed cutting. Brown waves of it fell into his eyes and he flicked it back impatiently with one hand.
“What? What do you want? We’re not hiring and we don’t open until seven.” The way he said open, I knew he was a Southerner. And not just a Southerner. He was a Savannahian. You can tell. The accent’s peculiar, almost like a Richmond accent, but quite different from, say, Atlanta or New Orleans.
“You nearly burned me with that soup,” I snapped. “You ought to be more careful what you’re doing before you start slinging boiling food around.”
His face flushed. It was deeply tanned and the bright blue eyes were set beneath heavy eyebrows. He was tall, maybe six three. Embroidered over the left side of the chef’s smock were the words “Guale” and “Chef Daniel.”
BeBe poked her head out the kitchen door. “Daniel?” Her voice was meek. “Everything all right?”
I was astonished. I’d never heard BeBe talk that way before. Not to a man, not to anybody.
“Daniel?” she continued, inching slowly toward him. “Pete’s sorry. He really is. He didn’t see the carton of fresh herbs in the cooler, and he didn’t realize you use white peppercorns in your fish stock. He was anxious to get it started before you came in this afternoon. He thought he was being helpful.”
Daniel blinked. Long thin fingers pushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “He should try reading the recipe card. It’s taped right by the prep sink.”
BeBe stepped outside and patted Daniel’s arm soothingly. “He knows that now. He’s inside, chopping fresh parsley like mad. He’ll get the new stock going right away. Okay?”
“It needs at least four hours of simmering.”
“There’s plenty of frozen stock in the freezer,” BeBe said. “A whole gallon. That’ll be more than enough for tonight, won’t it?”
She smiled brightly and batted her eyelashes for extra effect.
“I suppose.”
“Great.” She turned to me. “Did you two meet?”
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “No. I’m afraid I was too busy trying to scald her with bad fish stock.”
He extended his hand, thought better of it, wiped it on his smock, then held it out again. I shook.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m Daniel. Daniel Stipanek. I don’t usually make such a bad impression.”
My automatic smile froze. I felt my ears burn, and improbably, my hand felt icy in his. Stipanek? Danny Stipanek?
No. It couldn’t be. The Danny Stipanek I’d rolled around with in the shadows of Beaulieu’s live oaks was only a little taller than me. His ears stuck out from his head. He was a graceless goofball. The man clutching my hand in his right at this moment bore no resemblance to that Danny Stipanek. This Daniel person towered over me, the grin creasing fine lines around a square jaw, the blue eyes bright in his brown face. BeBe’s description of him had been more than accurate. He was indeed gorgeous.
I tried to say something, but it came out as a choke. I took a deep breath and tried to recover from my shock, pulling my hand away. “Actually, this isn’t really a first impression. We’ve met, you know. I’m Eloise Foley.”
He took a step backward. “No way.” The lazy eyes swept me up and down, but the slow grin came back.
“Weezie? Really? Well, I’ll be damned.”
I certainly hoped so.
BeBe looked from me to Daniel. “You two know each other? How?”
I watched him nervously. What did he remember? And how much was he willing to reveal to his new boss?
“We went to different high schools together,” Daniel said.
“That’s right,” I said, relieved. “Years ago. I’m surprised Daniel remembered my name even.”
That damned grin again. “How could I forget?” he drawled.
I had to get out of here. My heart was racing a mile a minute. The smell of garlic and fish stock was making me nauseous. Danny Stipanek! Of all the men to run into in all the alleys in Savannah. I groaned inwardly. Of course, he had to look great. And I? I had to look like I usually did. The baggy, wrinkled jeans. Faded T-shirt. I hadn’t even bothered to put on a bra. Good God. I didn’t dare look down. At least, I thought, I’d put on the Joan Crawford lipstick. So I wasn’t a total hag.
“Uh, BeBe,” I said, glancing meaningfully at my watch. “We really need to get going now if we’re going to get a good spot close to the house.”
“Just another minute,” BeBe promised. “I was going to pack us a little dinner. Some cold roast chicken, a couple of biscuits.”
“House? What house?” Daniel asked.
“It’s a plantation house. Out on the river. We’re going to an estate sale there in the morning. Weezie is an antique dealer, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” Daniel said, raising one of those dark eyebrows. “We’ve sort of lost touch over the years.”
I remembere
d his touch. It made me shudder.
“Oh yes,” BeBe said airily, laying it on thick now. “Weezie is opening a shop in the fall. In the old Lamplighter Lounge space. She’s buying stock for the shop now. This sale is really supposed to have fabulous stuff.”
“Really?” he said. “Where’s the sale? Maybe I’ll drop by there myself. I’m looking for a few things for my place.”
“It’s at Beaulieu,” BeBe said. “I can draw you a map if you like.”
I wanted to die. Right there. Or I could step inside the kitchen and stick my head into one of the big commercial gas ovens.
Daniel was grinning again. His blue eyes danced.
“Beaulieu? I’ve been there.”
“And you remember the way?” BeBe asked helpfully.
“Oh yeah,” Daniel said lazily. “I remember everything about Beaulieu.”
Chapter 13
“Tell me the game plan again,” BeBe said, slapping at a gnat.
I passed her my bottle of Avon Skin-So-Soft and she slathered the sickly sweet–smelling oil all over her body. We’d parked on the front lawn at Beaulieu and set up our folding chaise longues in the bed of the truck. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it was free and I’d parked as close to the house as I could get. My brilliant idea about camping out had apparently been shared by at least two dozen other salegoers. There were real campers, trucks, vans, even a couple of pop-up tents, scattered all over the front lawn of the old house, despite signs everywhere that said No Trespassing.
I recognized most of the vans and trucks. They belonged to antique dealers and pickers from as far south as Jacksonville and as far north as Charlotte. The classified ad about the sale had run in the Savannah and Atlanta papers. “Magnificent Antebellum Plantation Estate Sale,” it had read. The ad took up four column inches and promised everything from advertising tins to zinc-topped tables. Positively mouthwatering.
There were even a few “amateurs” camping out that night. I pointed out a powder blue Eldorado parked in the shade of a huge old live oak.
“That’s the Einsteins,” I said.
“Really?” BeBe was impressed. “Like in the genius?”
“They pronounce it Ein-steen,” I said. “They run a jewelry store in Statesboro. They’re both in their seventies and they’re rabid collectors of cutglass. The newspaper ad didn’t say anything about glass, but if they’re here, they must have gotten the inside dope. They’re mean as cat dirt too. Bennie, the oldest one, has a walker. He’ll run right over you with it if you get in the way while he’s after a piece of Fostoria. And I’ve had Sammy, he’s the little one with the yellow mustache, snatch stuff right out of my hand before. So we’ll probably stay away from glass. Although I did see the most fabulous Fenton punch set—the punch bowl, the stand, twelve cups. Flawless. OK, if you can get to the punch bowl, do it. Last time I was here, it was on a sideboard in the dining room. Don’t just stand there and stare at it, scoop it all up and put it in one of the tote bags. There are some disposable diapers in there. Wrap ’em up in that. We can’t afford breakage. Count, to make sure somebody hasn’t snagged a couple of the cups. Ten cups is good, twelve cups makes it worth a couple hundred dollars more.”
Then I showed her the shiny silver half-ton van with the words L. HARGREAVES on the side.
“That’s Lewis Hargreaves. If you see him acting interested in something, be subtle, but try to grab it before he does. He’s the competition. And he knows what to look for.”
BeBe took out a cigarette and lit it. “Lewis. I know him. My God, Weezie. How do you know what’s what? How can you remember everything? You’re starting to intimidate me, and I don’t intimidate easily.”
“It’s like that television game,” I told her. “Supermarket Sweeps? You remember that one? Everybody stands at the starting line, they yell go, and the contestants run up and down the aisles grabbing stuff, hoping they’ll make it back to the checkout in the shortest time with the biggest cash register tape. All these people here are after the same stuff as us, probably. We just have to beat them to it. It’s kill or be killed.”
I pointed my paper cup of wine at a red truck parked not far from ours. “Except somebody like Nappy. He’s another specialist. Buys old records, paperback books, radios, clocks, and guns. Guy stuff. He picks for dealers up in Ohio and Indiana. Kind of weird-looking, because he doesn’t have a hair on his head. But he’s nice. He’ll sometimes pick up something at a sale that he knows I buy. I do the same for him.”
“OK,” BeBe said. She poured another glass of wine. It was her third. I was still sipping my first. “We stay away from radios or clocks.”
“Well,” I wavered. “I buy them if they’re cute. Like, if you see an old Bakelite radio, jump on it. For that matter, grab anything Bakelite. You know what it looks like, right? Sort of like old plastic, but with a glow to it? Usually it’s red, yellow, green, or amber. Or one of those cute little old alarm clocks with the metal clangers, or a traveling clock in a leather case. Nothing big. Only cute and little.”
“Cute and little,” she mumbled.
“Smalls, we call them,” I said. “Here’s what you’re looking for, BeBe: Anything blue-and-white porcelain. Miss Anna Ruby had a lot of that. Make sure it’s not chipped, unless it’s just marked rock-bottom, say a platter for ten dollars or under. English is best, American is OK, I don’t buy Japanese. Silver—but only sterling. Look on the bottom for the hallmark. Linens. There should be tons of linens. Look for damask tablecloth and napkin sets, printed luncheon cloths from the forties, linen sheets and pillowcases, bedspreads, anything in the Victorian white category. Paintings are great. The walls are covered with them. Get the old prints, the—”
“Stop!” she hollered, plugging her fingers in her ears. “Enough already. God, I thought this was supposed to be fun. You’re making it all so serious.”
“It is serious,” I said, pulling her hands away from her ears. “A sale like this comes along once a decade, if that. The Mullinaxes were true connoisseurs. They bought the finest of everything. And they never got rid of a single thing.”
“All right.” She sighed. “Smalls. Sterling silver. Oil paintings. I get the picture.”
“You can get furniture too,” I added. “I’ve got a roll of masking tape in your bag. I’ve written ‘Sold—Foley’ all over strips of it. When you see a piece you like, slap the tape right on the front. If the piece isn’t too big for you to move, try to take it to the cash-out person. Tell her you’re putting it in my pile. Try to find good old painted wood pieces, or oak or pine. Ignore the junky mahogany stuff from the forties. Concentrate on country kind of stuff. You know, like I have in my house.”
“Had in your house,” she said sleepily. “But I thought there was some cupboard you were after.”
“The Moses Weed. I’ll deal with the cupboard,” I said firmly.
“Now. About the attic and the basement,” I continued, “and the closets. Very important. You know how I am about vintage clothes. Make sure you check closets. In every room. Grab all the clothes you can—everything except seventies polyester. I know it’s in, but I don’t do disco. Old hats, shoes, and handbags are good too. Look for alligator. I can sell that all day long. And don’t forget to check dresser drawers. Vintage lingerie is wonderful.”
“Dead people’s panties? That’s yucky.” She yawned again. “Too tired. Tell me in the morning.”
I looked over and saw that she’d nodded off, the cup of wine still balanced on her chest. “That’s right,” I whispered. “Sleep. We’ve got to get up at five to be in line.”
“Weezie?” Her eyes fluttered open again. “You and Daniel. I sensed something there. Heat. Definite heat. Did you ever, sort of, date?”
It was hot, but I felt a chill creep up my spine. “Once, maybe. In high school. It was nothing, Babe. Go to sleep.”
She yawned. “Can’t believe you didn’t hang on to a hottie like that.” Then she was asleep.
I tried not to think of Daniel Stipanek.
Tried not to remember that long ago summer day and the feel of Spanish moss on my back. I drank the last of the wine and drifted off to sleep myself.
A mosquito was droning around my face. I slapped at it, yawned, tried to roll over, and realized I had a pressing need to pee. Damn. Never should have had that second glass of wine. I looked at my watch. It was 2 A.M.
My lawn chair made a creaking noise as I sat up. Jethro heard me and sat up too. He let out a low-pitched whine.
“You too?” I whispered. He whined again.
Now what? I’d planned to make a run to McDonald’s in the morning, for coffee, a newspaper, and a pit stop. But I needed to go right now. In another couple hours, people would start lining up to get into the sale.
I hopped down from the truck bed, and Jethro followed. I stretched and yawned and led him away to a nearby tree where the lucky dog got to empty his bladder.
More people had arrived since I’d dozed off to sleep. There were maybe seventy or eighty vehicles parked in and around the lawn. I looked up at Beaulieu’s darkened windows. A bathroom, I thought. If I could just borrow a bathroom.
OK. I started out thinking about a bathroom. But soon I was thinking about that silent old house. And how in just a few hours, the place would be teeming with crazed antique dealers and collectors. What I needed was a little head start. A little sneak preview. I reached back into the truck, got my flashlight, and, on second thought, tucked the plastic sack that had held BeBe’s wine in the waist of my jeans.
The house was absolutely dark. A single naked lightbulb shone on the backside of the house, over what looked like the kitchen door. I tried the doorknob. Locked, of course. Pressed my face up against the glass in the door and shined the flashlight. I could see a night-light plugged into a wall socket near the kitchen counter. All the contents of the cabinets had been emptied onto the counters. I could see gorgeous old yellowware mixing bowls, stacks of Fiesta ware dishes, mugs and platters, blue spatter-ware dishpans and roasting pans and coffeepots. Everything I saw I would have bought. On top of the blue enamel 1920s Charm-Glow stove somebody had set up a big commercial coffeepot, along with a stack of foam cups and packages of creamer and sugar. Supplies for the people running the estate sale. Was somebody in the house, I wondered? Nobody I’d talked to seemed to know who would be running the sale. None of the local people who ran sales had been asked. In fact, most of them were like me, parked outside, dying to get in.
Savannah Blues Page 8