Gone With a Handsomer Man

by Michael Lee West

  “You jumped into his bed, and you barely know him.” He studied the back of his hands. “Plus, you got over Bing Jackson mighty fast.”

  “I have a history with Coop.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We grew up together in Bonaventure, Georgia. He was my first love.”

  “And your first lover?” Red Butler’s eyebrow went up.

  I shook my head.

  “So, he was the handsomest man you never fucked?”

  “That’s a crude way of putting it.”

  “I don’t care if you was blood brothers,” he said. “Quit messing with him.”

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “Do what you want. I’m out of here. And by the way, girlie, your coffee ain’t worth a shit.” He slammed his mug on the counter and walked toward the pocket doors. From behind, his broad chest tapered to narrow hips.

  Just like a bulldog, I thought. “Hey,” I called. “Was it something I said?”

  “Fuck you,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Not even if you begged,” I called back. He answered by slamming the door.

  twenty-six

  The next morning, I lay in bed, staring at the toile wallpaper. Then I pushed the covers aside and got ready for Bing’s funeral. My thrift-shop outfit was a far cry from the brown dress that I’d worn in court. I put Sir in the upstairs bedroom with his KONG toy and walked downstairs. I went through the rigmarole of locking the doors, but these precautions were useless if someone had stolen the key chain.

  I tried not to think about crazed repairmen as I walked outside and waited for Miss Dora. The RV was parked across the street. The top of the vehicle was crammed with camping gear, all of it tied down with rope. The sun glanced off the chrome and sent up a blinding glare. One large bumper sticker caught my attention. It showed an X-ray and the large caption read HERE’S WHAT DECLAWING WOULD DO TO YOUR HAND.

  The driver’s seat was empty, but the RV gave off plaintive meows. I was relieved when Miss Dora’s Bentley pulled up. I climbed inside. The chilled leather felt good against my legs.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “But you wouldn’t believe the mess at my house. Those painters are evil. Everywhere they go, they leave spatters. They’re like having birds flying loose in a room. You doing all right, darlin’?”

  “I’ve been better. I don’t like funerals.”

  “It’ll be over in a heartbeat. I just wish the painters worked as fast.”

  She drove through Rainbow Row and cut down Water Street. Then she shook her head, as if pushing away images of parakeets bombing her silk curtains, and glanced at my dress. “You look precious.”

  “So do you,” I said. Although precious wasn’t the right word. She was the epitome of style, but cute. Her black silk suit was elegant, but the pink and black polka-dot blouse was pure fun. On her tiny feet were black pumps with pink dots.

  “The funeral’s not for an hour,” she said. “We’ve still got time to swing by Jan’s store.”

  She turned onto Meeting and drove to Broad. Then she pulled into a lot next to The Picky Palate.

  “You’ll just love Jan,” she said. “Who knows? This may be the start of a fabulous food career.”

  “I can’t think about the future too much.”

  “Oh, yes you can. That’s why I brought you here—to smother your inborn pessimism and to plant a few seeds of hope in that dry-as-dirt heart of yours.”

  As we stepped into The Picky Palate, Natalie stepped out, holding a sunflower and clear plastic box. Salad. What else? Miss Dora saw me staring and said, “What’s the matter?”

  “That’s Natalie.”

  Miss Dora turned all the way around to stare. “Why, I don’t see a thing but a giant tart. After all, this is a bakery.”

  Our footsteps slapped on the rough wooden floor. The walls were lined with shelves that overflowed with raffia-tied jars—gourmet jellies, lemon curd, pickled okra. Interspersed among the shelves were bins of fresh flowers, sea-grass baskets, modern pottery mugs, and boxed mixes for cheese straws. Along the back wall were glass cases where people were lined up. A sign on the wall read TODAY ONLY: FRIED GREEN TOMATO SALAD WITH CORNBREAD CROUTONS.

  Jan Hightower-Lowe was a skinny, windblown woman with a freckled face and red hair pinned into a bun. She wiped her hands on her apron after Miss Dora introduced us.

  “Glad you stopped by,” Jan said, shaking my hand. “I was going to call you later. I’ve got a backlog for special-order cakes.”

  She turned to a desk and pushed aside food catalogues and old issues of Saveur and Bon Appétit. She grabbed a legal pad and thrust it into my hands. The page was divided into three columns. Each one listed a type of dessert, due date, and the customer’s price.

  “Since you’re new,” Jan said, “I’ll give you an easy assignment.”

  “Okay.” I nodded. I could handle easy.

  “I need two dozen red velvet cakes by tomorrow afternoon.” She raised her red eyebrows at Miss Dora, as if to say, We’ll see how she works out before I put my reputation on the line.

  Twenty-four freaking cakes? I didn’t have enough flour or pans, not to mention food coloring. I’d have to stock up at the dollar store.

  “Can you handle it?” Jan asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. And thanks.” Translation: If I have to stay up all night, I’ll bake you the best damn red velvet cake you ever tasted.

  “Your cut is six dollars per cake.”

  “But…” I looked at Miss Dora, then at Jan.

  Jan shrugged. “I know it’s not a lot. But I’m only charging twelve dollars per cake. I’m giving you half. If your cakes are suitable, I’ll think about doing sixty-forty.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Suitable? Did that mean no artificial vanilla? I reckoned it did. If I cut corners, I’d be out of a job.

  “You’ll need to box the cakes.” Jan handed me two dozen white cardboard sheets. “They’re not hard to put together. Any questions?”

  I shook my head.

  “Great. See you tomorrow.” Jan smiled. “Glad you’re a part of my team.”

  * * *

  Miss Dora steered her car into the shady cemetery. Cars were parked on both sides of the lane. When I spotted the hearse, a cold clammy feeling started in my chest and moved down to my feet. I cracked open the door and a blast of pine-smelling heat swirled into the car.

  Miss Dora climbed out of the Bentley and walked around to my door. She opened it wider. “Come on, darlin’,” she said. “We can’t put this off.”

  I started to get out of the car and the ground spun.

  “You all right?” Miss Dora cried. “Because you look ghastly.”

  “I’m okay.” I sat back down.

  “You sure?” She grabbed my hands. “You’re freezing.”

  “Just give me a minute.” I shut my eyes, thinking of Aunt Bluette’s funeral and how Bing had stood off to the side, his eyes hidden by designer sunglasses. Now he was going into the ground.

  “Darlin’ girl, don’t be so gloomy.” Miss Dora patted my shoulder. “I wanted to spare you from the uncomfortableness of a funeral. I tried to have the body cremated, but Mr. Turner acted like I’d stripped naked and was getting ready to do a lap dance. Mr. Turner’s the mortician. So I opted for a simple graveside service. Just try to get through it, because all eyes will be on you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Just what I needed to hear. I dragged myself out of the car, wishing I’d bought a wide hat with a veil. I didn’t even have sunglasses. I’d left them at Coop’s house. I picked my way through the grass. Straight ahead was a maroon tent. A few people were sitting in metal chairs. They gaped up at me as I walked inside. I was going to sit in the back, but Miss Dora grabbed my elbow and steered me to the front row, dead center.

  “Be a brave girl,” she whispered, stretching out the a in brave. She patted my shoulder. “Stay right here. I’m just going to speak to the priest.”

  Father Williamson’s crinkled face lit up when he
saw Miss Dora bearing down on him. Behind me, the mourners shifted in their chairs. More people arrived, real estate agents mixed with upstanding citizens with three last names. They seemed unsure of the protocol, whether it was proper to treat me like Bing’s girlfriend, offering heartfelt platitudes and a slew of “I’m so sorry’s,” or whether I should be shunned as a murderer. They just offered polite nods and moved down the aisle. This was Charleston, by god. The people might have lost the war but not their manners.

  In the distance, I saw Estaurado drive by in an old finned Cadillac. Miss Dora gave me a cheer-up nod as she made her way down the aisle, thanking people for coming. She had a way of putting people at ease, and I could feel them loosening up. Several conversations started at once. Nothing about death or homicide, just banter about children and grandchildren, tennis games and book club meetings, parties in the past and parties in the future. They weren’t being disrespectful. Their voices were a gentle reminder that death was part of life, and life moved along, whether or not we were ready.

  A hush fell when Natalie walked up looking glamorous in sunglasses and a floppy hat with black netting. She clutched the giant sunflower from The Picky Palate and made a big show of setting it on top of the casket, which already had a tasteful pink spray.

  Natalie gave me a wide berth and cut around to the back of the tent. Had she loved Bing? What if they had been made for each other, and I’d just been a fool in the way?

  Estaurado walked up, looking positively scary with his pointy beard and shiny black suit. The fedora had been replaced with a black, broad-brimmed hat. He tipped it at Miss Dora, then took his place in the back where there was standing room only. All the metal chairs were taken, and the crowd spilled out of the tent onto the grass.

  Even Red Butler showed up. He leaned against a loblolly pine, near a throng of Mount Pleasant and Charleston detectives. Bing would’ve been proud at the turnout. The breeze wafted over the many wreaths and flower baskets that circled the casket. Even that damn sunflower would have made him smile. I glanced over my shoulder at the mourners’ calm faces and squeezed my purse, wishing it included a self-destruct button.

  “Oh, my god,” Miss Dora said.

  I turned, half expecting to see a body rising from the casket, an undead Bing with fangs. But the coffin was sealed tight, and the floral spray was intact, as was the sunflower. Nevertheless, Bing was headed straight toward me—not a vampire Bing, but Bing in drag.

  A straw boater cast a shadow over his face as he surveyed the crowd. He stepped forward, and his tight black dress lifted over his nubby knees. It was the sort of edgy dress a preteen might wear, but way too small. A dress like that cried out for spiked heels, but Bing’s feet were stuffed into Birkenstocks. In each white-gloved hand, he gripped a huge black patent duffel bag with mesh sides. One of the bags meowed; the other bag twitched and then emitted a lower, raspy meow.

  Behind me, people were whispering. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d thought Bing had risen from the dead and brought cats to his own funeral. I slid down in my seat—not because I was going to faint, but because I didn’t want him to see me.

  Miss Dora grabbed my hand. “Don’t act foolish,” she whispered. “It’s Eileen, Bing’s sister.”

  The meowing got louder as the sister walked toward me. When she stopped, she set the cat cases on the ground and began tapping her fingers together, starting with the thumbs and working to her pinkies. Then she reversed the order. After she did this three times, she started in with her eyes, shifting them three times to the right, three to the left.

  I thought of a man in Bonaventure who did this sort of thing—he’d suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder, only he washed his hands umpteen times a day. I looked at the woman’s gloves. I’d bet you good money her hands were red and chafed.

  “Howdy do, Dora poo,” the woman said.

  “Eileen,” Miss Dora said with a curt nod.

  “Don’t rush off after the funeral, Dora.” She tapped her fingers again, then reached for the cat cases. “You and me, we’ve got unfinished business.”

  “I’ll try,” Miss Dora said.

  “Try hard.” Eileen nodded at me.

  “You must be my brother’s murderer.”

  “Lower your voice,” Miss Dora said, glancing over her shoulder.

  Eileen gave me a malignant stare, then drifted down the aisle accompanied by plaintive mewing. She stood in the rear, next to Estaurado.

  “She’s mentally ill,” Miss Dora whispered out the side of her mouth. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  A bumblebee floated over the casket while Father Williamson delivered the eulogy. His words were bland as unsalted soup, without any mention of young lives being cut short. That was a relief. When the service ended, the man from the funeral home shuffled over to me and Miss Dora and escorted us out of the tent. I could see Eileen struggling to reach us, but her giant cat carriers had caused a logjam.

  “We’ve just got one more thing to do,” Miss Dora whispered. “We’ve got to see Bing’s estate lawyer; then you can put this day behind you.”

  “What’s the dirt on Eileen?” I asked after we settled in the car and she started the engine. I aimed the air conditioner vent in my direction and leaned toward the cool air.

  “Oh, honey. That could take years.” Miss Dora leaned over and adjusted the vent, returning it to the original position. “Eileen has OCD—you know what that is?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I guess you saw her tapping her fingers? And those gloves? Well, she’s a washer—she has scrubbed the hide off her poor hands. Not only that, she’s a checker, a counter, an arranger, and a hoarder. She’s got that RV packed with newspapers, back issues of Cat Fancy, and a thousand dresses that no longer fit her. Mostly she hoards cats. She gets obsessed with a breed and goes on a mission to find one. The minute she gets it, she’s off to the next breed. She’s got Siamese, Persians, Maine Coons, and the hairless Sphynxes. ’Course, that was years ago. Who knows what she’s got now?”

  “What does she do with them?”

  “Goes to cat shows. Last I heard, she was breeding show quality Siamese. But I don’t see how she can live in that damn Winnebago with a million cats. There it is, under that oak tree.”

  She pointed at a white RV plastered with familiar-looking bumper stickers. This was the same ratty RV that had been parked on East Bay Street. I started to mention it, but she cut me off.

  “You can just imagine the filth. You can’t get cat pee out of anything. But that’s not why Rodney Jackson disowned her.”

  “What happened?”

  “It didn’t take a whole lot to make Rodney Jackson angry—Bing was the same way, as you found out.” She pursed her lips as she drove around the hearse. “Eileen fell in love with an oyster shucker named Benjamin Dover. He was an ex-con: manslaughter and bank robbery. The shock of it nearly sent Rodney into the hospital. He couldn’t have his only daughter marry a criminal with an unsuitable name. Why, the shame of it made him crazy.”

  “How can a name be unsuitable?”

  “Think about it, darlin’. Ben Dover? Eileen Dover?” She lifted one eyebrow. “Rodney Jackson said it was a disgrace. He said she’d be the laughingstock of Charleston, unable to have personalized stationery. I had to agree with Rodney. How in the world could Eileen send engraved party invitations? Mr. and Mrs. Ben Dover cordially invite you to a party? I don’t think so. Rodney demanded the boy change his name, but Ben was proud of his lineage. He claimed he’d traced his people back to the famous White Cliffs of Dover. Not that Rodney believed that for a second.”

  “But if Eileen loved him, why did Mr. Jackson care about something so trifling?”

  “Because it wasn’t trifling to him. The ex-con part was frightening to us all. But Rodney was a petty man. He put a great store in appearances. I took pity on the girl and sweet-talked Rodney into letting the girl get married. It took some doing, but Rodney finally agreed. We cleaned Ben up—sh
aved his beard and put him in a Thomas Pink shirt. Then Rodney got the boy a job at the real estate firm—doing what, I’ve no idea.”

  “So they got married?” I asked.

  “Yes, but not the way we’d imagined,” Miss Dora said. “Eileen and I planned a Valentine’s Day wedding at the French Huguenot Church. Everything would’ve been fine if Eileen had wanted bridesmaids. But she wanted to lead her goddamn cats down the aisle. She promised it would be tasteful. She even had white satin harnesses made for the felines. When I told Rodney, he canceled the wedding. Eileen and Ben eloped.”

  “Surely Mr. Jackson didn’t kick her out of the family for that,” I said.

  “That happened later. After Eileen got sent to jail.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Ben robbed a 7-Eleven and she drove the getaway truck. Well, that was it for Rodney. He called the estate lawyer. Knocked his own flesh and blood out of her rightful inheritance. And left it all to Bing. Now, the crazy cat lady is back in town.” Miss Dora glanced at me. “Just take care of yourself, Teeny. No one is safe around Eileen.”

  twenty-seven

  The sun was dipping behind the trees when we drove past The Citadel and pulled up to the lawyer’s office.

  “You’re a great driver, Miss Dora,” I said. “How did you learn your way around Charleston? I’ve been here nearly six months, and I still don’t understand the one-way streets.”

  “It’s easy to find your way, darlin’. Charleston is shaped like a giant pecker, and North Charleston is the tight little ball sack. Once you figure that out, driving is a snap.”

  We stepped into the building. The sign in the lobby had fifty thousand surnames. Miss Dora drew her finger under QUENTIN K. UNDERHILL and led me down the hall. The secretary escorted us to a conference room with a long table.

  “Mr. Underhill will be with you momentarily,” she said and shut the door.

  “This decor is making me nauseous,” Miss Dora said, glancing at the navy blue walls. They were covered with old maps of Charleston. We sat down. A moment later, the door swung open and a spidery, middle-aged man walked in. His narrow face was dominated by thick tortoiseshell eyeglasses. His brown summer suit waffled on his thin frame as he strode toward us. He set down an accordion folder and shook Miss Dora’s hand.