Gone With a Handsomer Man

by Michael Lee West

  “You’re sopping wet,” I said. “You’ll catch your death if you don’t put on dry clothes.”

  “You’re wet, too.” He held out his hand. “Come with me?”

  “I need to cool off.” I kept dredging the steaks. When he left the room, I spread my hands across the counter and knocked over the salt shaker. Mama used to say if salt spills, it means evil is nearby. At the very least, you’d cry one tear for every grain you’d spilled.

  I flipped a few grains over my left shoulder. Okay, fine. He had a wife, sort of. But it was over. I found a frying pan, set it on the burner, and added a pat of butter. Just because I was a “more is more” girl, I threw an extra pinch of salt over my shoulder.

  twenty-four

  It was still raining when Coop drove me back to the Spencer-Jackson House. He walked me to the door, acting proper for the benefit of the detectives, but he gave me long, meaningful stares. Since I was facing the unmarked car, I clasped my hands behind my back to keep from pulling Coop into my arms.

  “Call if you need me,” he said over his shoulder as he headed back to the street.

  I went inside and shut off the alarm. Then I ran to the window and watched his taillights move away from the curb. Would he call Ava, or let it slide?

  After I set my keys in the bowl, I walked to the kitchen and turned on the little television that sat on the counter. Dragonwyck was playing, and Vincent Price had just added deadly oleander to his first wife’s cake.

  While I watched the movie, I flipped through Uncle Elmer’s Joy of Cooking. There wasn’t a single recipe that suited an almost-ex-wife. I’d just have to write my own anti-Ava recipe. I opened a kitchen drawer, grabbed a pen, and found a blank page in the back of Joy of Cooking. Then I jotted down a recipe called Skewer Your Ex Kabobs. I imagined cubed pork, chicken, pineapple, kiwi, and peaches, along with thick slices of red and green bell peppers.

  Find a bowl and mix olive oil, peach wine vinegar (or bottled salad dressing), and salt and pepper to taste. Pull on disposable gloves and make a skewer, using two oleander branches. Strip the leaves and add to olive oil mixture. Steep at least three hours to mingle flavors, and to infuse oleander. Baste fruit, vegetables, and meat with olive oil mixture. Sprinkle with kosher salt and pepper. Assemble kabobs, alternating meat, vegetables, and fruit, taking care to alternate the colors. Grill until browned. (Spread tinfoil over surface of grill to prevent unintentional seepage of oleander marinade.) After the meal, gather the skewers, serving plates, and any leftover marinade. Place into paper bag. Bury the bag.

  * * *

  Miss Dora showed up early the next morning. I led her through the brick corridor into the garden. “Hope I’m not disturbing you, but I was horrified to call,” she said.

  “I was just fixing iced tea—would you like a glass?” Sir was stretched out in the grass, watching Miss Dora with interest.

  “No, no, I’m fine. I stopped by because I’ve got two things to tell you. First, I’ve found you a sort of job. And you won’t even have to leave home. I know the owner of The Picky Palate. Jan’s got terrible taste in furniture, but she’s got a business mind. She can’t be beat making pâté, either. She needs a ghost baker.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “That’s a hired cook who bakes dishes for money. The restaurant—or, in this case, Jan—pays the cook and takes credit for the dish. Apparently, The Picky Palate is overwhelmed with special order desserts. That’s where you come in.”

  I tilted my head, trying to imagine such a job.

  Miss Dora barreled on. “Like I said, you don’t have to leave home. Jan will give you the orders. Y’all can discuss how much she’ll pay you. ’Course, you’ll have to supply the ingredients and all. Don’t tell her I said so, but Jan’s desperate. A lot of cooks don’t like this setup because it’s advantageous to Jan. She’ll charge her customers twenty-five dollars for a layer cake, but she’ll pay the cook fifteen dollars. If you’ve put a dozen eggs into that cake, and fresh Meyer lemons, you’ll lose money.”

  “Sounds dicey.”

  “Could be. But if you’re a smart shopper, you might turn a profit.”

  I nodded. This wasn’t perfect. A fifteen-dollar cake wouldn’t buy gas money for Coop’s Mustang, much less pay the electric bill for this humongous house, but it was a start.

  “Fabulous,” Miss Dora said. “I’ll take you to meet Jan right before the funeral.”

  “Funeral?”

  “That’s the second part of my news,” she said. “The coroner released Bing’s poor old body. The funeral is tomorrow at noon. I would’ve consulted you about the flowers, but child, I didn’t know where you were. Not to pry, but where were you? With that Cooper fellow?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s sticking to you like a seed tick.”

  “We picked up Sir. Then we cooked steaks.”

  “Your fiancé isn’t in the ground and you’re out gallivanting with your lawyer. That’s not like you, Teeny. Not like you at all.” She stepped closer. “I know it’s not my place to offer advice. But I’m just worried sick. The gossips will paint you as a wicked harpy.”

  I reached down to pet Sir’s wrinkled head. “Harpy fits,” I said, “but not wicked.”

  We walked into the foyer, and Miss Dora stopped beside the table. She leaned over to examine the crystal bowl, then ran her finger over the rim. “Did you ever find that key, darlin’?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And I don’t guess the police returned your clothes?”

  I shook my head.

  “Don’t those idiots know a thing about a woman and fashion?” She looked up from the bowl. “You’ll need a sedate dress for the funeral. And not that ugly brown sack you wore in court. The service will be graveside. The Episcopal priest will say a few words. Don’t be shocked if Bing’s girlfriend shows up. Trash like that always makes a scene. Just ignore her.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Oh, say, around nine?” She frowned. “And please make your cute lawyer stay home—unless you want the gossips to think you killed Bing for a handsomer man.”

  * * *

  Later that morning, I drove the Mustang to my favorite thrift shop. The beige Camry followed at a discreet distance. I shot them a glance as I opened the door. With Ava’s supermodel attire firmly in mind, I found a simple black dress for five dollars. I also found a white blouse and straight black pants, two dollars each.

  Next, I went to the big dollar store and bought baking staples for my ghost cooking job, along with cute black-and-white shoes. Then I hit the condiment aisle, loading up on cooking oils, spices, and extracts.

  As I drove toward the Battery, I felt the pull of the Spencer-Jackson. The house was creeping up on me, seducing me with iron curlicues, secret alleys, rose petals on cobbled walkways, and the tolling bells of St. Michael’s.

  Lord, I loved it all. I loved the play of light on the stucco and how it changed from ice pink to peach to Pepto-Bismol. I loved the buildup of purple clouds over the harbor. I imagined myself coming down the oval staircase in a white, frothy gown with Coop waiting at the bottom. I could raise a family here, and I could almost hear the light, tapping footsteps of children and dogs as they ran across the heart pine floors. It was straight out of a forties movie. Girl meets house, girl loses house, girl falls in love. Miss Templeton Finds Her Dream Home.

  I set the groceries on the island and stepped into the garden for lavender. Uncle Elmer had installed speakers all over the house, even on the patio, and the doorbell was hooked up to it. Now, it rang with a vengeance, with gongs reverberating all over the yard. I liked those bells. No one could sneak up on me. Sir tipped back his head and howled.

  Still holding the lavender, I ran back into the house, grabbed my keys from the bowl, and hurried into the brick corridor. It was always cooler out here. A breeze rippled over my blouse as I walked toward the iron gate.

  A woman with long brown hair stood on the other si
de. She reached up to adjust her floppy white hat. The draft caught her dark hair and blew it away from her shoulders. It was Ava.

  twenty-five

  I stared through the iron bars into Ava’s face. God, those cheekbones. I’d been hoping a sandstorm had come up in the night and buried her house. Despite the heat, my arms broke out in gooseflesh.

  “Hello, Teeny,” she said with a cut-glass English accent. The wind lifted the edges of her long white linen dress, showing firm, tanned legs. She lowered her sunglasses and smiled. Despite the noon heat, she looked like a bride who’d just emerged from an air-conditioned limousine.

  I unlocked the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk, blocking the corridor.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked, looking amused.

  “You’re Ava.” I glanced down the street but didn’t see her motorcycle.

  “Is this a good time for a sit-down?” she asked. Her accent cut through me like a pâté knife slicing into foie gras. Miss Dora had served that at the engagement party, and Bing had explained what it was and how to pronounce it. I’d spit it out when he wasn’t looking, thinking of the duck that had sat in a cage, force-fed until its poor liver swelled, only to end up at Miss Dora’s party.

  I blinked at Ava, certain that she suffered no food qualms. Her full lips parted, showing straight white teeth. Even if she’d had pancake lips and eyes no bigger than capers, she’d still be gorgeous. I drew my lips over my teeth, mindful of the gap, which now seemed like the Grand Canyon of dental flaws, and wondered how I could get rid of her—not a literal riddance, like with rat poison, just a temporary one.

  “Can I take a rain check?” I waved at the corridor, as if chaos lurked behind the stucco walls. Even to my ears, I sounded rude but I didn’t care.

  “It’s frightfully important,” she said.

  As she strode past me, I smelled musk and mock oranges with a touch of lily of the valley—a potent poison, by the way, even in minute quantities. She tossed her hat onto a bench. Her face was all eyes and cheekbones, the lips full and natural, with a hint of gloss. She had what Aunt Bluette used to call “presence.”

  I sighed, wondering if I should show her to the pink living room, with its cushy chairs, or into the kitchen. The kitchen, definitely. I opened the pocket doors and led her into the dining room, past the sun-slashed walls, into the butler’s pantry, with its tall white cabinets filled with china, every imaginable serving piece. I opened another pocket door and walked into the kitchen and set the lavender on the counter.

  “I just got back from the grocery,” I said, waving at the mess on the island.

  Ava peeked into a bag and lifted a bottle of olive oil. “Two dollars for extra virgin?” Her right eyebrow moved up. “You’re quite the bargain shopper, aren’t you?”

  So, this was how it was going to be. I pulled the bottle out of her hands. She stared at her empty palm, then at the bottle, as if she could mind-bend it out of my grasp. In the back of my head, I could hear Aunt Bluette clucking her disapproval, reminding me that Jesus not only forgave His enemies, He fed them.

  “Can I get you a cold drink?” I set the jar on the counter.

  “Whiskey would be lovely.”

  A drinker, I thought gleefully. I opened a cupboard and poked around. “I may not have any alcohol,” I said. “I haven’t lived here long. Care for a Diet Coke instead?”

  “May I have a glass of water?” She pronounced water like “porter.” Her bracelets tinkled as she leaned across the counter. Her arms were toned and tanned. I imagined her lying on a striped beach towel, the wind streaming through her hair. Then I imagined her wearing a halter top, digging her way from Egypt to South Carolina.

  Now what? A heart-to-heart about Coop or a discussion about extra virgin oil versus regular? I looked past her, at the French door, where Sir was pawing the glass. “Are you enjoying Sullivan’s Island?” I walked to the door and opened it. Sir ran to his water bowl.

  “Quite.” She smiled at the dog.

  Quite? What kind of badass, short word was that? I dumped a bag of flour on the counter, and white powder drifted up. “How did you find me?”

  “Don’t look so frantic. I haven’t stalked you. Well, perhaps a little. Red pointed me in your direction.”

  She got to call him Red?

  “Please don’t be annoyed,” she continued. “He and I are old friends.”

  I could’ve guessed that. Her reflection floated in the granite counter.

  “Mind telling me why you’re here?” I asked.

  “Well, since you asked.” She smiled. “Are you shagging my husband?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Well, I could, but Cooper hates emotional chitchat. It took him forever to admit he loved me. I don’t imagine he’s professed his devotion to you, has he?”

  I shoved a bag of frozen peas in a cabinet, then I pushed a flour sack into the freezer.

  “Didn’t think so.” She folded her hands, her fingers moving like a daddy longlegs. “By the way, is there a reason you keep frozen peas in the cupboard?”

  “They’re defrosting,” I said. Lie number fifteen.

  “And the flour?” She traced her finger along the counter.

  “Keeps the bugs out.” Not a lie, but I marked it up as one anyway. Number sixteen. She was baiting me. Anything I said would be used against me; then it would be used to hook Cooper. It was awful tempting to give a few X-rated details, but Aunt Bluette had taught me the value of silence. She used to say, “Loose lips sink ships.”

  I stared back at Ava and smiled a mysterious smile. Let her stew, let her wonder.

  “Possum got your tongue?” she said in a faux Southern accent.

  “Not in a while,” I said. She looked like the type who’d crush a man’s balls and replace them with neuticles.

  “Have you known my husband long?” she asked.

  Soon-to-be–ex-husband, I almost said but caught myself in time. “All my life,” I said. “I grew up in Bonaventure, Georgia.”

  “Are you the majorette?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Wrong girl.”

  “Glad we got that sorted.” She pushed away from the counter. “If you’re shagging him, don’t worry. I won’t break your knees. Or throw fruit.”

  “That’s a relief.” I blinked. So, she knew about the incident in Bing’s yard. Damn Red Butler Hill and his big mouth.

  “Although the idea of throttling you has crossed my mind,” she said.

  “Back at you.”

  “Backatyou?” She looked puzzled.

  “Ask Red Butler. He’ll know.” I paused. “Let’s be really real. Why are you here?”

  “I want to save my marriage.”

  “You’re talking to the wrong person.”

  “No, I’m not.” Her eyelids fluttered. “The Bar Association frowns on attorney-client shagging, doesn’t it?”

  “You should know.”

  “You’re a bright spark. I see why Cooper likes you.” She winked. “This could end with handbags at dawn.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a British saying. A duel of sorts.” She pushed away from the counter. “Surely it won’t come to that.”

  “Hope not.” The bitch was scaring me.

  “If you cross me, I’m a formidable enemy.” Her eyes narrowed for an instant. “I never lose.”

  * * *

  That afternoon, I found a broom and swept the corridor, wishing it was this easy to push Ava from my mind. I was just getting into a rhythm when a masculine voice called, “Yodelayheehoo.”

  I looked toward the gate. Red Butler stood on the other side of the iron bars. I set the broom aside and started toward him.

  “Have you noticed that Winnebago?” he asked and pointed over his shoulder at a huge RV with a bumper sticker that read MY CAT IS SMARTER THAN YOUR HONOR STUDENT.

  “Once or twice,” I said.

  “It was parked on East Bay last night,” he said. “Know who it belo
ngs to?”

  “No.” I unlocked the gate and we walked into the house.

  “Hey, girlie,” he said. “Your ex’s funeral is tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  “You going?”

  “Of course.” I opened the pocket doors and stepped into the kitchen. While I found two mugs, he started lecturing about funeral protocol, insisting that I should act proper and ladylike and not make a scene.

  I was so insulted, I couldn’t keep my hand steady as I poured coffee. But if I blasted him, I’d prove I was uncouth. Aunt Bluette hadn’t raised me to be ill-mannered.

  I set out cream and sugar and sliced some coffee cake. Red Butler reached for a hunk and chomped down. When a man is chewing, he’s almost as vulnerable as when he’s making love. I decided to pounce.

  “Ava stopped by,” I said. “But I guess you know that.”

  He swallowed, then tipped the sugar bowl over his mug. “I figured she would,” he said.

  I slipped a small bite of cake into my mouth and tried to frame my words. I knew they’d be repeated to Ava, but I couldn’t control myself. “Why is she in town?”

  “Ask her yourself.” He set down the empty sugar bowl and reached for the cream. “Any more questions, girlie?”

  I stuffed a bigger piece of cake into my mouth to keep from asking if Coop still loved Ava and if I should just give up and find me a kick-ass woman lawyer who wouldn’t hire a biased gumshoe to watch over me. I washed down the cake with a swig of coffee, then I said, “Tell me about Ava.”

  “You’re the PD’s top person of interest, and you want to know about another woman?” He laughed. “She’s not one of them women who say, ‘What are you thinking? Are you mad at me? Do you love me?’” He lifted his mug. “You that kind?”

  “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “Why you think that?”

  “You don’t call me Teeny. You call me girlie.”

  “I’d like you a whole lot better if you’d quit tempting the boss with your no-no parts.” He dumped cream into the mug. “He’s a damn good man, and a sharp lawyer. I don’t want him disbarred because of a cute lawyer-banger.”

  “Is that what you think?” I lowered my mug.