Gone With a Handsomer Man

by Michael Lee West

  “You see that beige Camry down the street?” Red Butler pointed to the window. “Two of Charleston’s finest are on a stakeout.”

  “I don’t like this,” Coop said. “Why don’t I leave T-Bone with you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, hoping I sounded brave.

  “Plus, I’ll be in my van,” Red Butler said. “I’ll keep an eye on your girlie.”

  “I’m only fifteen miles away.” Coop picked up my hand. “I’ll call when I get home—wait, what’s your number?”

  “Don’t call,” Red Butler said. “Line’s tapped.”

  “Give it to me anyway.”

  I found a notepad in the hall table and wrote down my number.

  “While you’re at it, here’s mine.” Red Butler handed me a business card. RED BUTLER HILL, PRIVATE INVESTIGATING SINCE 1980. “Just let me check the house for little green HVAC men, and I’ll be off.”

  “Wait.” I tore off a piece of paper and started to write down my number, but he waved. “Got it already. Thanks.”

  He headed upstairs, presumably to check closets and under the beds. Coop opened the back door and peered into the garden. T-Bone loped over the grass. Coop whistled but the dog wouldn’t come.

  “Don’t worry, he can’t get out,” I said. “The garden is walled. Wait, there’s a gate in the back. Just let me check and see if it’s shut.”

  “Hold on.” Coop put his hand over mine. He pulled me into the garden, around the hydrangeas, into a shadowy corner. “When this is over, I’m taking a long break,” he said. “Let’s stay in bed for a month.”

  He pressed me against the stucco wall. It was still warm from the scorching heat. His hands moved under my hair, up to my face, and he kissed me. His belt buckle pressed into my stomach. We broke for air, then he covered my lips with short, sweet kisses, each one ending with a satisfying smack. The sounds floated around us like tiny peeping birds.

  T-Bone nuzzled between us, his tail thumping against my leg. I heard whistling. It was coming from the second floor. I glanced up. Through the dense net of branches, I saw movement, and a corner of the iron balcony railing.

  “Anybody down there?” he called.

  Coop pulled back.

  “Hey, T-Bone,” Red Butler called. “Where’s the boss? He down there?”

  Coop tilted his head. “Can’t you see us?”

  “No,” Red Butler said, leaning farther over the rail. “Sheesh, you better not be bumping no-no parts.”

  Coop pulled me against his chest and kissed all around my mouth. I laughed.

  “He can’t see us,” I whispered. “We’re invisible.”

  Above us, the balcony door creaked shut. I leaned against Coop. “We’ve got less than a minute to do the no-no thing.”

  I slipped my tongue into his mouth. He tasted so sweet. My hands moved up to his ears, into his hair. He broke the kiss and pulled back.

  “He’s coming down the stairs.” Coop took my hand and we walked back to the house.

  “House is clean,” Red Butler said. “No boogeyman. And stop holding hands.”

  T-Bone trotted into the foyer, and Coop shut the door. “Do you have an alarm?”

  I nodded.

  “Use it.”

  “You better shove off, Boss. And take the dog. Or the dicks will wonder if you’re banging her. That’s never a good thing, having them wonder.”

  “Dicks?” I asked.

  “Cops.” Coop squeezed my hand. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Bring coffee,” Red Butler called.

  I walked them into the brick corridor. They stepped past the iron gate and split in different directions. T-Bone trotted next to Coop as they walked by the beige Camry. I locked the gate and went inside. I rushed around the first floor, closing the wooden shutters. I felt gritty from the beach but was too scared to take a shower. Visions of Psycho kept running through my head. I was glad Hitchcock had made that movie in black and white.

  I went upstairs and looked out the hall window. The white van was parked at the end of the block—illegally, if Miss Dora had been right about the prepaid parking spaces in this posh neighborhood.

  The beige Camry hadn’t moved. Police didn’t have to worry if they took a rich person’s slot. If I were rich and saw Red Butler in my parking space, I’d let him stay. You wouldn’t want to get on his wrong side. But I was. He didn’t like me; I could tell.

  The street was filling with blue twilight. Over the rooftops, I saw the harbor, but I was too tired to enjoy the view. I walked to the pink toile room and patted the coverlet. I hadn’t thought I’d ever see it again. I thought about calling Miss Dora, but if my phone really was tapped, it could get ugly. She’d give the police an earful of anti-Bingisms. I’d just wait till tomorrow and pay her a visit, explaining about the tap and asking her to write a note that made it legal for me to stay at the Spencer-Jackson House.

  I shut my eyes and tried to make my mind relax but it twirled. My girlish heart had loved Cooper O’Malley forever. This was punishment, a karmic bitch slap for not loving Bing and Aaron the way I should have. A crazy logic was at work, and it had caused me to sleep with the wrong men because I’d abstained from sleeping with the one I’d truly wanted.

  But I’d fixed that, right?

  Coop phoned twice. Both conversations were short and bland, just a lawyer checking on his client. When the phone rang a third time, I was almost asleep. “Hey,” I said.

  Silence.

  I sat up, my elbows digging into the mattress. “Hello?” I said. I heard traffic noises in the background. I glanced at the phone. It didn’t have a caller ID display.

  “Anyone there?” I said, trying to sound tough. The line clicked. Red Butler and the police were watching the front door, but anybody could sneak into the backyard. I thought about getting up and cooking something called I Didn’t Kill My Boyfriend Cake with I’m a Suspect Icing. I crept out of bed and pushed a dresser in front of the door. Not that it would help, but if someone broke in, they’d make a world of noise.

  If you really and truly wanted to kill someone, all you had to do was stick a cigarette up their rear end. No kidding. I saw this on Discovery Channel. The nicotine causes a skippy heartbeat, and the victim stops breathing. Another way to kill someone is with bacon deviled eggs made with homemade mayonnaise. I’d learned this at Food Lion. Botulism can take hours to grow. It causes a toxin, I forget what it’s called, but the victim suffocates. It’s the same thing as Botox, which just goes to show that a good thing can be a bad thing. It just depends on how it’s served.

  twenty-two

  The following morning, I put on a blue plaid sundress and brushed my hair into a ponytail. I wanted to look extra sharp because I was picking up my bulldog. I’d need to buy a leash, dog food, and treats, but I was running low on cash.

  I called Bonaventure Savings and Loan and had my honeymoon money—$2,500.67, to be exact—transferred to First Charleston Bank. But I was stuck in South Carolina until December, and my savings wouldn’t last that long. I had no choice but to sell Aunt Bluette’s farm. I called Lakeside Realty in Bonaventure and asked for Betty Masters. She’d belonged to Aunt Bluette’s sewing-and-prayer circle and she wasn’t the type to ask questions. When Betty picked up, I almost burst into tears. To distract myself, I pinched my arm.

  “I’d like to put the farm on the market,” I said.

  “I figured you would, seeing as you’re getting married and all,” she said. “But the farm is in bad shape. It’ll take a while to sell in this economy. You might have to take a rock-bottom price.”

  “All right,” I said, wiping my eyes on my shirt. Selling the farm at any price was enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. “But I’m stuck in Charleston. Can you mail the contract?”

  I made a cup of tea. A little while later, Coop showed up with a bag of McMuffins.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asked.

  “Better than I thought.” I reached for a McMuffin. “But I did get a hang-up
call.”

  “Could be a wrong number,” Coop said. “Are you still wanting to pick up your bulldog?”

  “I was just fixing to go.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “I can drive myself.”

  “I’m not questioning your ability, Teeny. Whoever murdered Bing was in his house when you showed up. I’ve got to assume they’re running loose around Charleston. Maybe he—or she—is getting paranoid. Maybe he’s worried you saw him.”

  “I wish I had.”

  “Before we get Sir, let’s stop by Miss Dora’s,” he said. “I’d like to get a written statement from her. Otherwise, you can’t stay in this house.”

  We drove up to Queen Street. Coop parked around the corner, and we walked to Miss Dora’s house. The hipped roof peeked through the trees, and the sun hit the copper chimney pots. As Coop and I got closer, I saw scaffolds on the pavement. A painter squatted by an oleander tree, mixing paint. The iron gate stood open, and I could see into the corridor. It was just like the one at the Spencer-Jackson House, but the red walls made it darker.

  I was mindful of the Camry nosing along the sidewalk, so I didn’t grab Coop’s hand. I stepped into the narrow passage and two words blinked behind my eyes: criminal trespassing. Never in my life had I worried about breaking the law—I’d been a Baptist teenager and had grown into a lie-counting adult. Now I questioned everything.

  I stopped one of the painters. “Is Miss Dora home?” I asked.

  “Is she ever,” he said.

  Coop and I passed into the courtyard with its cherub fountain and iron patio furniture. At one end of the house, the French doors stood open. Miss Dora’s shrill voice rose up and she strode into the hall, her rosy silk caftan billowing. She was trailed by Estaurado and a painter with bushy eyebrows.

  “Pink!” she said. “For the last time, pink!”

  The painter scooted ahead of her. “But Mrs. Jackson, pink’s bad for resale.”

  “You say pink like it’s a four-letter word,” she said.

  “You need permission from the historical foundation to change your colors,” he said.

  “Pshaw. Those hysterics can jump in the harbor.” She whirled. Her eyes widened when she saw me. She flung open her arms, and her bracelets clinked. “There you are! I’ve been worried sick.”

  She air-kissed my cheeks and gave Coop an admiring glance. “Sorry for the mess and confusion. I’ve decided to sell this grand old dame. But it’s going to take a whole lot of cosmetic surgery.”

  “But you love this house,” I said.

  “I do, but it’s just too big. It cries out for a large, rambunctious family. At my age, I need a little pink cottage overlooking a marsh. No yard, no upkeep. No worries. No committee picking my color scheme. It’s the wrong time to sell, but I’m old. I can’t wait for the economy to improve.”

  “Miss Dora, I wanted to thank you for posting bail.”

  She waved her hand, setting off another series of jingles. “The least I could do. Did you go back to the Spencer-Jackson?”

  “Can we talk?” I looked around and lowered my voice. “In private.”

  “Oh, dear. This sounds serious.” She crooked her finger. “Come this way, duckies.”

  Coop lagged in the hall, shuffling his feet. “I’ll just stay here, if you don’t mind.”

  “Suit yourself, darlin’.” She took my arm. “This is getting more mysterious by the second.”

  She led me into the kitchen. It was a formal, majestic room. A crystal chandelier hung from a pink ceiling, casting rosy light on the marble counters and tall white cabinets. She reached for a carton of eggs.

  “Estaurado bought these at a farm in Summerville. I was just going to make an omelet. Are you hungry?”

  “I just ate.”

  “This won’t take a second. Talk to me while I cook.” She opened the carton, but it was empty. “That Spanish bastard got to them first. Estaurado! Get in here, pronto.”

  He appeared in the doorway, his face pinched and sallow.

  “Estaurado, I’d planned to eat your damn huevos. Give them to me now.”

  “No, no,” he cried and spread his hands over his privates. “No comas mis huevos!”

  The painter walked up, laughing. “Miss Dora, you just told him you were going to eat his testicles for breakfast.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Miss Dora cried. “Estaurado, don’t flatter yourself. Come with me, Teeny.”

  We walked into the drawing room, which was all done up in raspberry chintz. She closed the pocket doors, then sank into a plaid chair. “Between the painters and Estaurado, I just don’t know how much more I can take. But never mind me. Tell me everything that’s going on, and I do mean everything.”

  “I’m back at the Spencer-Jackson. Coop was wondering if you could put it in writing that I’m house-sitting your antiques and I have your permission to stay.”

  “My pleasure.” She walked over to her French desk and pulled a sheet of pink paper from a drawer. “After all, that house is part of the Jackson estate, and I am a Jackson.”

  “Detectives are watching me,” I said. “They followed me here. And my phone is bugged.”

  “The police are fools. I’m not scared of them one bit.” She scribbled a note, signed her name with a flourish, and stuffed the page into a pink polka-dot envelope. She added a thick stack of money and pressed the envelope into my hand.

  “Oh, no, ma’am.” I pushed the envelope back. “You’ve already been way too generous.”

  “Take it. You’re broke.” She spread her arms. “Broke, broke, broke!”

  “That’s what Renée Zellweger said in Jerry Maguire.”

  “And she was right, wasn’t she? Old Jerry Maguire was broke. So are you. Take the money, darlin’. It’s not that much, just a few hundred. Bake me a key lime pie, and we’ll call it even.”

  “I’ll be happy to bake you a pie, but I won’t take your money.”

  “Yes, you will.” She fit the envelope inside my blouse.

  “Miss Dora, why are you so good to me?”

  “Well, first of all, I feel terrible that I didn’t warn you about Bing. That boy never treated you right. Second, you are Gloria made over. I always took care of Sister, and I want to take care of you, too.” She patted my cheek. “So just let me do my thing. I know you’re proud and want to pay your own way. But I can help there, too. I’ll make a few job inquiries. I know you’re worried about your phone having a bug, but if I hear anything, is it okay to call?”

  “If it’s about a job, sure.”

  She stood. “Where you off to?”

  “I’m fetching Sir. He’s at the pound.”

  “Give him a big old hug from me.”

  * * *

  Coop spent the day with me. First, we picked up Sir, who smelled like pine needles. Then Coop invited me to his house for dinner. We headed over to Isle of Palms, losing the Camry in the bridge traffic. We stopped at the Red & White Grocery to buy steaks and dog food, taking care to leave the windows cracked.

  The store was crowded with weekend shoppers, most of them wearing sunglasses and flip-flops. Coop pushed the cart over to the meat counter. “Why don’t you let me cook supper tonight?” he asked.

  “You cook?” I smiled.

  “I get by.” He leaned over the case and shuffled through packages. “You like T-bone or New York strip?”

  “Both.”

  “Maybe you can share your cooking secrets?” He grinned and looked past me. His eyes rounded, and the smile morphed into a frown. I turned and saw a woman with long, glossy brown hair that fell past her shoulders, straight except for a slight curl at the ends. She was tall and thin, with curves in the right places.

  “Hello, Cooper,” she said in a British accent. She angled her cart next to his. She wore beige slacks and a crisp white blouse that showed a hint of cleavage. “Having a cookout, are we?”

  When he didn’t answer, she lowered her sunglasses, showing bluish green eyes.

/>   “Yeah,” he finally said.

  “You always were gifted with charcoal,” she said. She reached past him, into the meat case, and grabbed a filet mignon. “You shaved your beard. I rather like it.”

  Coop tossed two steaks into our cart. Without looking up, he said, “When did you get back?”

  A loaded question, to be sure. I tried my best to analyze it. It could mean, I thought you were visiting your sick mother in Greenland. But I hoped it meant, What part of I never want to see you again did you not understand?

  “Not too terribly long ago,” she said. “I’m staying on Sullivan’s Island.”

  I was praying she’d add, with my cute lover.

  “Staying long?” Coop asked.

  Her eyes cut to me, then to Coop. “Indefinitely,” she said.

  He looked down into our cart. I looked, too. Food defines people just as clearly as their taste in clothing and their interior design. Miss Dora and I had discussed this a lot. Our cart overflowed with carby things: garlic French bread, potatoes, fresh corn, and a bakery sour cream cake that I planned to turn into a trifle. To our credit, we had a box of strawberries for the aforementioned trifle.

  Quick as a flash, I looked into the British woman’s cart. Two lemons. Bottled water—not in plastic containers but in dark green, foreign-looking bottles. A bag of lettuce, and not just any lettuce but a Euro blend with bitter endive. I swallowed around the lump in my throat. Damn this woman and her bitter greens.

  She extended her hand. “I’m Ava.”

  “Teeny.” I shook her hand, but it took all my strength not to give her the stink eye.

  Her eyes swept from my hair to my feet and back up. With that one look, I could tell that she’d eliminated me as competition. Please let her be his long-lost sister. It didn’t seem likely that he had any relatives in England, or I would’ve heard about it. Although, back in Bonaventure, the O’Malleys had celebrated their Irishness with huge St. Patrick’s Day parties.

  Coop’s silence told me all I needed to know. Please let her be a bitch. A man-eating, out-for-herself, doesn’t-wear-panties bitch. She wore a ring, but not on the married hand. It wasn’t a diamond, but a twisty gold ring with pearls, something an evil fairy godmother would use to gouge people’s eyes out.