Gone With a Handsomer Man

by Michael Lee West

  “What makes you sad?” I asked.

  “Cruelty.” He tipped back his head. “Law breakers. Funerals. Lies.”

  Just my luck. He ran his thumb over the rim of his mug.

  “What about you?” he asked. “What makes you happy?”

  This caught me off guard. Other than Aunt Bluette, no one had ever asked me what I thought about anything, much less what thrilled me. The wind caught my hair and it streamed across my face. I started to ask if Coop had a rubber band when he tucked a lock behind my ear.

  “I’m a sucker for dogs with smashed-in faces,” I said. “I love laughter. Courage. The color blue. Don’t get me started about old movies, peaches, or cast-iron skillets. Or the smell of sweet almond because it reminds me of Mama. And I can’t drive by McDonald’s without getting a McFlurry.”

  “What about bêtes noires? Your pet hates?”

  I smiled. “Men who use foreign words.”

  He bowed. “Touché, ma petite.”

  “I don’t like limbo,” I said. “Or breaking things that don’t belong to me. It kills me to eat the last cookie in the jar. I don’t like people who hold back the truth because they think they’re sparing my feelings. I don’t like unfinished business, either.”

  “Maybe we should finish what we started.” He cupped the back of my head as if I were a boneless infant. His irises were gray, and the soft, neutral color pulled me in. My pulse tapped out a rhythm, Don’t You Dare. Make Him Wait. There was still enough Baptist inside me to know it wasn’t proper to think what I was thinking. But I wasn’t a fool. I’d been waiting too damn long for this moment.

  We walked into the house. After being in the hot sun, the cool air conditioning felt good on my face. He caught my hand and led me down a short hall. We stopped to kiss under the skylights, where sun fell in broad stripes, then we turned into a white bedroom. T-Bone ran after us, but Coop shut the door.

  “Sorry, old buddy,” he told the dog through the door. I had the feeling T-Bone knew the routine. Coop put his hands on my waist. His head dropped to my neck, and he pushed his face against my dress. Each time he exhaled, little bursts of air moved through the fabric, warming my skin and leaving damp circles on the fabric. I kept touching his hair, feeling the strands glide between my fingers.

  This wasn’t a dream. It was real. We were going to make love for the first time.

  “I want you so much, Teeny,” he said, his voice muffled by my dress. He lifted his head and reached around to unzip me. I moved into the warm space between us and unbuttoned his shirt slowly, letting my palms linger on the crisp linen. His shirt fluttered off; then he pressed against me. I could feel him through my clothes, hard as alder wood.

  “I want you, too,” I said. I lowered my hand, grabbed his belt, and tugged him closer. He reached down to help. The buckle jangled, and his trousers slid over his hips and hit the floor. Then my dress came off just as fast.

  “Can I push Bing from your mind?” He kissed me again. “Can I make you forget him?”

  Never in my life had I wanted a man the way I wanted him, but I was scared to put my feelings into words. I turned back the covers and stretched out on the bed. The sheets rustled as he slipped in beside me. I kissed him, tasting sugar and coffee. A thousand times I had imagined him in my arms, and I wanted to remember every detail. The back of my hand traced the dark hairs that ran down the center of his belly, into his boxer shorts. Then I reversed the direction, barely grazing his skin, drawing hearts, I ♥ you, Coop O’Malley. I’ll always ♥ you.

  “It’s going to be so good, Teeny,” he said.

  His hand slipped between my thighs, a place he’d never felt before. My fingers moved through the gap in his shorts and brushed against the damp bead on his tip.

  He inched down his shorts, then he cupped my hand between his legs; the flesh was smooth and textured like corduroy. My panties were off in a flash, but he took his time, tracing his thumb over my collarbones, curving down between my breasts. The sheets rustled as he slid down and moved his tongue over my nipples.

  “I can’t wait any longer,” he said. His hand dropped between my legs, moving them apart. I lifted my hips and his hands slipped behind me. He bit his lower lip and pushed his hips forward.

  I gasped.

  He pressed deeper and deeper.

  We moved the way wind shapes dunes, shifting and gathering, ripples molding into peaks, faster and faster, each grain separate yet together.

  twenty

  I slid my hand over the sheet, feeling the cool wrinkled linen. Outside, I heard gulls crying. I sat up, wincing at the soreness between my legs. Across the room, the bedroom door stood open and my brown dress spilled across a white chair. Coop’s shirt lay beside a black dresser.

  I sighed. My moral debauchery was complete. Bing was dead and I’d just slept with my lawyer. Worse, I was glad.

  T-Bone trotted into the room and flashed me a look, as if to say, Don’t even think about getting rid of me.

  “I can share,” I told him.

  His head swiveled when Coop stepped into the room carrying a paper bag.

  “I went to the store while you were sleeping.” He tossed the bag onto the bed. “You can’t visit Isle of Palms unless you own a swimsuit. It’s a law.”

  “Thanks, O’Malley.” I smiled.

  He started to kiss me, but T-Bone began spinning in circles, growling at his tail. “T-Bone, slow down, buddy. You better get used to Teeny.”

  A thrill shot through me. The dog must have sensed it, because he showed his teeth and growled under his breath. Coop clapped his hands. The dog loped to the French doors that led to the deck. Then he stood on his hind legs and pressed his front paws against the glass.

  “Aw, buddy,” Coop said.

  The dog lifted one paw and tapped the glass.

  “He’s relentless.” Coop patted my leg. “Let’s hit the beach.”

  The dog let out a deep bark, then dropped to all fours and trotted out of the bedroom door. “See you outside,” Coop told me.

  I opened the bag and pulled out a white two-piece. It was a size smaller than I normally wore, but it slipped right on. When I stepped onto the deck, his eyes swept up and down, and he grinned. We walked down to the beach, with T-Bone racing ahead. Gulls wheeled above us as we crossed over a wooden walkway, then trudged through warm, ankle-deep sand. Coop found a flat place above the surf line. He hooked a leash to T-Bone’s collar.

  “Leash law,” he said. “Dogs can only run free before 8:00 a.m.”

  We spread a quilt on the sand. The beach was deserted on both sides, except for a cluster of umbrellas toward the pier. The wind was flecked with salt, sweeping the surf line into curves and valleys like a woman’s cleavage.

  Cooper was stretched out on the quilt and propped up on his elbows, reading Advanced Indoor Gardening. T-Bone lolled beside him, his paws stretched out like tree limbs.

  “Tide’s falling.” Coop pointed. “See that dark streak in the water? No waves are breaking. That’s a rip current.”

  I nodded, thinking that sea currents weren’t the only things to watch out for. I sat next to Coop and watched a man in a red swimsuit jog by. The man did a double take at T-Bone and picked up his pace.

  “I can’t stop touching you.” Coop leaned forward and tucked a curl behind my ear. “I remember our first date. You wore a red polka-dot bikini. The wind was blowing, and your hair fluttered around your shoulders. I thought I might pass out. I’d never seen anyone that beautiful. You’re even more beautiful now, if that’s possible.”

  Then he drew his finger along my chin and moved up, tracing my lips. He slipped his finger into my mouth and grazed my teeth.

  “What if somebody sees us?” I asked.

  “Sees what?” He smiled. “An innocent kiss?”

  “Define innocent, counsel.” I put my arms around his neck.

  “I submit exhibit A.” He took off his sunglasses. We kissed so long, we fell sideways and landed on the quilt. My hair f
ell all around him, throwing his face into shadow. “And exhibit B,” he said. He kissed the edges of my mouth while his hand slid inside my bathing suit.

  A shadow passed over the blanket, and T-Bone barked.

  “Yodelayheehoo, Boss,” said a gritty, masculine voice. “Hey, you gonna represent this girl or suck face? ’Cause you can’t do both.”

  Coop and I broke apart. I looked up at a stumpy man in tiny round sunglasses with green lenses. He grinned, and his brown moustache stretched into a flat line over small teeth. His hair was chin length, brassy blond, with violently dark roots that screamed home dye job. He swept a lock off his forehead, then ran his hand down his frayed shorts. They stopped just below his knees, revealing broad, hairy calves. He gave me a hard stare and brushed a thick finger over his moustache.

  “Don’t let me interrupt the lovefest,” he said and shuffled his feet. He wore tennis shoes with the tips cut off, showing splayed hairy toes.

  “You’re early,” Coop said.

  “Yeah? Seems I got here in the nick of time.” He scratched his chest, and his nails scraped into his cotton t-shirt with COLDPLAY printed across the front. T-Bone nuzzled his hand, and the man absently patted the dog’s head.

  “Hey, you old monster,” he said, then glanced at me.

  “Teeny, this is Red Butler Hill. He’s a private detective.”

  “Pleasedtomeetya,” the man said, looking anything but pleased.

  “Nice to meet you, too, Red.” I extended my hand but he ignored it.

  “It’s Red Butler to you, girlie.” He rubbed his nose. It looked boneless, without a smidgen of cartilage, as if it had been broken multiple times.

  “What’s with the Beach Blanket Bingo shit?” He pointed to the quilt. The sun glinted off a diamond cluster ring.

  “We’re just sitting here,” Coop said.

  “Right. And I’m Jesus come down from heaven. Can we go inside?”

  Coop got to his feet. Mustering as much dignity as I could, I grabbed a towel, draped it around my shoulders, and stood. T-Bone stepped back as Red Butler Hill picked up the quilt. Sand flew all over everybody, but he didn’t seem to notice. He tossed the quilt over his shoulder.

  The wind picked up as he strode ahead, past the dunes, toward the raised wooden walkway. All around us, the sea oats clucked their disapproval. Red Butler reached the end of the walkway and jumped off. T-Bone’s tail wagged as he waited for Coop and me to catch up. When we got near the end of the walkway, Coop took my arm.

  “Come on, Boss. No PDA.” Red Butler winked at me. “That’s public display of affection, girlie.”

  Coop laughed. “You’re a detective, not my mother.”

  “The dunes have eyes, man.”

  We slogged through the deep sand and walked single-file up the stairs to the deck. Red Butler dropped the quilt on an Adirondack chair. His tennis shoes clapped over the wooden planks. He reached down for a paper sack and pulled out a six-pack of Coors Light.

  “Refreshments,” he said and opened the door with his free hand. The dog shot into the house. The men hung back, doing their “ladies first” thing. I went inside. Red Butler headed to the kitchen.

  “Be right back,” I told Coop.

  “He’s okay, Teeny.” He caught my hand and squeezed it. “He’s always grumpy.”

  I was tempted to keep holding his hand, but I broke away and walked to the bedroom. I peeled off the bikini, changed into the brown dress, then went back to the living room. It was empty except for T-Bone, who lay in a patch of sunlight. His ears perked forward, and a moment later Red Butler walked through the dining room holding a beer. He pushed his sunglasses on top of his head. His eyes were a clear, sharp topaz rimmed with stubby gold lashes. The upper lids were flat and straight, as if drawn with a ruler, making him seem alert.

  “Where’s the boss?” he asked.

  “Don’t know.” I sat at the far end of the sofa.

  Red Butler burped. He lifted the bottle and took a long swig. I couldn’t believe this rough man was a detective. He seemed like he’d be more at home at a racetrack, placing bets on my guilt or innocence. Ten dollars says the filly killed her boyfriend.

  T-Bone’s ears slanted, and he let out a muffled woof. When Coop emerged from the hall, he was tucking a pale green shirt into cutoff khakis.

  “Beer’s in the icebox.” Red Butler lifted his bottle. “Get you one?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Suit yourself.” Red Butler shrugged. “After I tell you all the shit I found out, you’ll need the whole six-pack.”

  “What’d you turn up?” Coop sat down beside me.

  A smile flitted across Red Butler’s rumpled mouth. He swaggered to a leather chair and sat down so hard the cushion squeaked, then took a long pull from the bottle. “It’s been a wild morning. The coroner ruled Mr. Jackson’s death a homicide.”

  The room began to spin. I leaned back, trying to remember where I’d put my handbag. I opened my mouth and gulped air. Coop put his hand on my leg. “You okay?”

  “I need my inhaler.”

  He patted my leg and got up. He disappeared into the bedroom. Red Butler tilted his head. “Why you need an inhaler?”

  “Asthma.”

  “A cousin of mine has that,” Red Butler said. “She’s a nervous Nellie, too.”

  “Whatever,” I said, but he’d hit a nerve. When I’d lived on the farm, I’d stashed inhalers everywhere, the way drug addicts hide pills.

  “Sure, it’s physical.” He laughed.

  Coop returned with my manila envelope. I dug out the Ventolin, shook it, and depressed it. I held my breath, grimacing as my throat filled with bitter vapors.

  “Don’t get all wheezy on us,” Red Butler said. “I saw the preliminary autopsy report. Mr. Jackson died from a gunshot wound to the chest. Official cause of death is exsanguination. You know what that means, girlie?”

  I gave silent thanks to Law & Order and nodded, but I couldn’t say the words: bled to death. “You sure he wasn’t shot in the head?” I asked. “It was bleeding.”

  “A postmortem wound.” Red Butler took another swig. “That means the dude was dead before he hit the ground. A scalp wound would gush like a motherfucker, but only if the motherfucker was alive.” He shrugged. “Dead, not so much.”

  Coop lowered his eyebrows. “Anything else?”

  “I’m just getting started.” Red Butler took a sip of beer. “The deceased had a woman in every zip code. Over in Edisto, a shrimper’s twenty-year-old daughter says Bing Jackson is her baby’s daddy. So your girlie isn’t the only one with motive.”

  “Bing fathered a child?” I cried. “Is there a woman in South Carolina who hasn’t slept with him?”

  “Prolly not,” Red Butler said.

  “Where is my dog?” I asked, not caring if I sounded heartless.

  “It’s at the humane shelter,” Red Butler said.

  “Oh, Lord.” I drew in a breath. “They aren’t going to put him to sleep, are they?”

  “Hell, no.” Red Butler cracked his knuckles. “Not unless you don’t claim him.”

  “Coop, I need to go.”

  “Sure, I’ll drive you,” he said.

  “Not today, you won’t.” Red Butler glared. “The shelter is closed. You can fetch the pooch tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry, Teeny.” Coop touched my hair. “He’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know about you peeps, but I ain’t fine,” Red Butler said. “I need something stronger than beer. Where you keep the hard stuff, Boss?”

  twenty-one

  While we drank gin and tonics, Coop and Red Butler discussed my housing situation. They agreed that I shouldn’t stay at the Spencer-Jackson House, but when Coop insisted that I stay with him, Red Butler shook his head.

  “You’re just asking for trouble, Boss,” he cried.

  “Look,” I told them. “Miss Dora gave me a key. The house is loaded with antiques. I was house-sitting for her.”

  “She can h
ire someone else,” Coop said.

  “If you won’t let me stay there, I’ll have to find an apartment.”

  “So get one,” Red Butler said.

  “It’s not that simple.” I felt the heat rise to my face. “I’ve got to watch my pennies.”

  “What’s Miss Dora’s connection to the Spencer-Jackson?” Coop asked.

  “She decorated it.”

  “That’s a non sequitur, Teeny.” Coop grinned.

  “And she was married to Bing’s daddy. She’s a Jackson.”

  “Now that Bing’s dead, will his property go to her?”

  “I don’t know. Apparently Bing’s got a sister.” I paused. “Look, I don’t like the Spencer-Jackson House, but it won’t hurt if I stay a day or two. I can’t go back to Bonaventure. I’m trapped in Charleston. I don’t have a job. I’m looking, but it’s scary.”

  Coop gave me the key to his Mustang. He and T-Bone followed in the truck, with Red Butler lagging behind in a white van. I turned down Palm Boulevard, then veered right onto the Isle of Palms Connector. As I sped through the marsh, shorebirds flew up in dark commas. Bing had kicked me out of the Spencer-Jackson House. If he knew I was headed there now, he’d rise from the mortuary slab and haunt my ass.

  When I turned onto East Bay Street, the “For Sale” sign gleamed in the afternoon light. I parked at Adgers and got out of the car. I hurried across the street and unlocked the entrance gate, trying to shake the feeling that something was off kilter.

  T-Bone’s nails ticked over the floor as he ran into the hall, trailed by Coop and Red Butler. Both men gazed up at the curved staircase. “Nice digs, girlie,” Red Butler said.

  I dropped my keys into the bowl. “It’s the funniest thing,” I said, “but the keys to this house went missing the other day. I’d put them right in this bowl. But after the air conditioning men left, the keys were gone.”

  “You think the HVAC men got them?” Red Butler asked.

  “No. Maybe.” I looked at the staircase. Saffron light fell through the arched window and hit the paintings, throwing shadows over the frowning women. What had disappointed them? Bad hair days or bad men in their beds?