Ava lifted her glass. “Shall we make a toast?”
“Honey,” Miss Dora said, “this isn’t a toasting matter. Teeny’s being kicked out her house again. And Bing’s greedy sister is going to contest the trust. Is that what it’s called—contest? Well, that’s what Eileen’s going to do. She’s still upset because her daddy left his fortune to Bing. And now Bing has left it to Teeny.”
“But he didn’t mean to leave me anything,” I said.
“It’s not your fault he got murdered before he changed the trust,” Miss Dora said.
Coop set down his glass and ran his hand over his hair. “I better call Red.”
“Young man, this isn’t the time to make phone calls,” Miss Dora said. “You better find a damn loophole so Teeny can get her money. Or better yet, maybe you can get the judge to let her move back to her aunt’s peach farm. That would solve all her problems.”
“But it’s out of state,” Coop said, rising to his feet.
“Barely,” she said.
A few days ago, I’d thought along these lines. I’d been hell-bent on going back home. It was that whole “I’ve got to get back to Tara” thing—fight, flight, or freeze. But I hadn’t been thinking clearly. Returning to Georgia wasn’t an option. Not only would I violate the terms of my probation but the farm was in bad shape. I couldn’t bring in a peach crop this year or next. I’d have a roof over my head, but I’d still need five jobs to pay the utilities. Even if Bing’s murderer was caught tomorrow, I wouldn’t leave Charleston. I was in love with Coop, and I truly liked the Spencer-Jackson House.
“I’ll just be a minute,” he said and went to the kitchen.
“Where is he going?” Miss Dora twisted around in her chair.
“He’s calling Red Butler,” I said.
“Who?”
“His PI,” Ava said.
“I hope he’s a good one. But with a name like that, I can’t help but wonder.” Miss Dora drained her glass and looked at Ava. “Would you be a dear and get me a refill?”
“I’ll get it.” I rose from the chair, lifted Miss Dora’s glass, and hurried to the kitchen.
Coop sat at the built-in desk, talking on the phone. “How soon can you get here?”
The wine bottle sat on a black slate island. I tilted the bottle over Miss Dora’s glass, trying to eavesdrop as she quizzed Ava up one side and down the other. She was doing what Southerners do best, “placing” Ava in the small pond of the Low Country.
“Oh, I’m not a native,” Ava said.
“Honey, I figured that out ten minutes ago,” Miss Dora said. “What with your strange accent and all.”
“I have a strange accent?” Ava laughed.
“Well, I shouldn’t say strange,” Miss Dora said. “More like an alligator’s love call.”
I didn’t hear Ava’s reply because Coop hung up and faced me. I half expected him to give me a real kiss, but he walked over to the sink and gazed out the tiny window. “Ava just showed up,” he said.
“You don’t have to explain.” I refilled the glass.
From the great room Miss Dora called, “Teeny? Forget the refill. I’ve got to skedaddle.”
I lifted Miss Dora’s glass and took a sip of wine. Then I followed Coop to the living room.
Miss Dora stood. “I hate to drink and run, but I’ve got a million things to do before my supper club. Teeny, darlin’, you ready?”
“Sure.” I looked back at Coop. “Unless you need me for something?” Then I cringed. Damn, that hadn’t come out right. I tried again. “I just meant, if you needed me to explain anything to Red Butler about the trust.”
“That would be helpful.” Coop nodded. “I can drive you home.”
“I can take her,” Ava said.
“No, ma’am,” Miss Dora said. “She’s not getting on the back of a motorbike.”
“I’ll see that Teeny gets home,” Coop said.
“Personally?” Miss Dora tilted her head.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He escorted Miss Dora to the Bentley, leaving me alone with Ava and T-Bone. She kept tracing her slender fingers over the sofa, drawing patterns in the leather. The silence made me nervous. I sipped Miss Dora’s wine, then I said, “I’ve got to get home and bake two dozen cakes.”
Ava made no comment. I took another sip of wine. “They’re due tomorrow,” I added.
“Sorry, you’ve lost me.” Ava flipped her hair over her shoulders. “What’s due?”
“Cakes,” I said.
“What a relief.” She laughed. “For a moment I thought you said conjoined triplets were due tomorrow.”
Bitch, I thought and dug my nails into the leather chair. Why had I told her about my cakes? Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? She didn’t need the inside scoop on what I was baking or thinking; but after her crack about the triplets, I felt compelled to explain.
“The trouble is, I don’t have a decent recipe for red velvet cake,” I said. This was totally true. Now that I was faced with baking two dozen freaking cakes, only one cookbook would do, and not because I needed the recipe—I needed Templeton Family Receipts so I could go back to the Spencer-Jackson and make up another recipe about Ava.
Ava gave me a “Who Gives a Shit” stare. I glanced over my shoulder. Where was Coop? Still talking to Miss Dora? When I looked back, Ava was studying me like I was a clay shard she’d pulled from the dirt.
Careful, Teeny. Careful. She’s not your friend. She’s your rival. Tell her too much, your butt is going to jail. Just change the subject. Instead, I blurted, “See, I left all my cookbooks at my fiancé’s house? One of them is an old family cookbook. I really, really need it.”
I paused, wondering if I should mention the key I’d found at Bing’s house. No, probably not. She gave me a penetrating stare. “Isn’t your fiancé’s house a crime scene?”
“It’s kinda hard to explain. I really need that book. See, I’m making the cakes in bulk. Not all recipes double real good.” I smiled, grateful she couldn’t translate Teenyisms into regular English. I needed that book because it was full of make-believe evilness, penned by a whole slew of Templeton women trying to improve their moods with pounded peach seeds and foxglove. I needed that damn book because, if the police found it, they’d use the recipes against me in a freaking court of law, even though I was totally innocent.
“What if I went with you to your fiancé’s house?” Ava asked.
“You?” I tried to keep my face blank. Why would she go out of her way to help me?
“Why not?” She stretched her arms over her head. Long, lithe, tanned arms, not the least bit jiggly. “I haven’t had an adventure in a while. I’m getting antsy, as you Southerners say. I’d love a little old-fashioned breaking and entering. And a crime scene!” She clasped her hands together. “I love it.”
“One problem,” I said. “The police are tailing me.”
“That would be dicey.” She ran her long fingers down T-Bone’s neck.
I was having second thoughts. “Maybe Coop knows a way to get my books,” I said.
“Don’t ask him yet,” she said. “He’s such a law-abiding citizen. He’ll go through legal channels, and by then, your cakes will be baked, right?”
“True,” I said. And the baker will be in jail.
twenty-nine
After Coop returned, he made a red pepper omelet. Ava stared out the window and did little gestures with her hand, as if she was having an argument with herself.
Her concentration seemed to dim when Red Butler Hill showed up. His combat boots left sandy footprints as he walked across the room and set a six-pack of beer on a desk. He straightened his tuxedo jacket, then reached for a bottle.
“Love your outfit,” Ava said. Instead of wearing formal trousers, he’d opted for cutoff denim shorts.
He gave her a two-finger salute and sat down beside her. “Hey, beauty,” he said, pointedly ignoring me.
Coop stepped out of the kitchen, holding a spatula. “Hey, Red.
You hungry? I fixed an omelet.”
“I never turn down food,” Red Butler said.
“Or anything else.” Ava smiled.
“You know me too good.” Red Butler winked.
During the meal, I couldn’t stop thinking about Templeton Family Receipts. If Ava chickened out, I’d have to return to Bing’s house by myself. Me, who wouldn’t drive her Oldsmobile if a brake light was out. It was amazing how being accused of a crime could change your whole outlook. I wasn’t 100 percent sure the police, or the district attorney, would look in my cookbook. But I couldn’t risk it.
I nibbled on the omelet. It was the perfect texture, filled with bacon, peppers, mushrooms, and ham—more like a deep-dish frittata, since Coop hadn’t folded it in half.
“Tell me about the trust, girlie,” Red Butler said.
I told him a quick version, finishing with the pending sale of the Spencer-Jackson House.
“Do you have a copy of the sales contract?” Red Butler asked.
I took the documents out of my purse and put them on the table. “The lawyer said I’d have to get a copy of the new deed at the courthouse,” I told him.
Coop and Red Butler bent their heads together and flipped through the pages I’d given them. Ava peered over Coop’s shoulder. What did an archeologist, or whatever kind of -ologist she was, know about the law? I didn’t want her digging through my papers.
“Everything’s in order,” Coop said. “The real estate contract’s notarized. Signed by both parties.”
Red Butler shoved the sale document into the envelope.
“Let me see the signatures again,” Ava said.
He pulled out the papers. She leaned over, her eyes switching from the trust to the sale contract. “Something is dodgy.”
“You can’t be serious,” Coop said. He bent over the documents.
I got up to see what they were talking about. The documents were side by side, with Ava’s red fingernail under each signature, Rodney Bingham Jackson III.
“They look identical,” Coop said.
“They’re not,” she said. “Look at his signature on the trust. The bottom loop of the J is open. See? But it’s closed on the sale contract. And look at the Bs and gs in each Bingham. They’re different, too. The Roman numeral isn’t consistent. One has gaps, the other is tight.”
Coop glanced at me. “Do you have samples of Bing’s handwriting?”
“No. But there are plenty of examples at his house. He kept all his important papers in a closet.”
“Maybe the police have them,” Ava said.
“Not likely,” I said. “The closet is hidden. It’s behind paneled doors.”
“I’m assuming this is the house where your cookbooks are?” she asked.
“The whole shebang.” I sat back down.
“Let’s go get them,” she said.
“Get what?” Coop frowned.
“Haven’t you been listening?” Ava raised her eyebrows. “You need signature samples. Teeny needs her cookbooks. I hope you still have a key.”
I nodded.
“Brilliant.” Ava clapped her hands.
“Hold on, you two,” Red Butler cried. “Which house you talking about? ’Cause if you’re referring to the murder scene, don’t even think about going there.”
I tried to explain about my aunt’s especial cookbook, carefully skirting the part about the poisoned recipes and my paranoia. Before I finished, Coop shook his head.
“No way,” he said. “You can get the books when this is over.”
“I knew you’d put a damp blanket on this,” Ava said. “That’s your whole problem. You won’t ever take a chance.”
“No, not on illegal activities,” Coop said.
“Not on anything,” Ava said.
He flinched—not a jerk, just a little eyelid flicker and a stiffening in his shoulders. But I knew she’d pricked his ego. And I knew that this was at the heart of their separation. She was audacious, and he followed rules. No exceptions. Ever.
Ava slid a paper in front of me. “Teeny, could you draw a map to the hidden closet?”
“It’s tricky. I’d almost have to show you.”
“Not to worry. When I get there, I’ll ring you. And you can talk me through it.”
“You ain’t talking her through nothing,” Red Butler cried. “For all I know, the boss’s phones are tapped.”
“You’re a ruddy fool. Teeny, come with me.” Ava grabbed my hand. “I’ll be careful. I won’t let the police get you. I’ve got a plan all—”
“Won’t let the police get her?” Red Butler sorted. “Hell, you’ll deliver her on a silver platter. She’s being tailed. They’ll follow her straight to the murder scene.”
“They’re not following me,” Ava said. “In fact, I’m the only person in this room the police aren’t following.”
“Bad idea, Ava.” Coop squeezed her arm.
“I’ll be careful.” She looked up into his eyes.
That did it. I got to my feet. “I’m coming with you.”
“Right,” said Red Butler. “Just hop on the bike. Wink at the cops when you pass by. Show some leg. Sheesh.”
“You can’t do it,” Coop said.
I wasn’t sure if he was addressing me or Ava, or both of us.
“Look the other way, Dudley Do-Right,” Ava said.
“You bitches are crazy,” Red Butler said. “I don’t want no part of it.”
“Have I asked for your help?” Ava asked. “If we have copies of Bing’s signature, Cooper can stop the sale of the house. That will buy Teeny some time. And the girl needs her books. How is this crazy?”
“Because it’s a fucking crime scene,” Red Butler said.
“And it’s against the law,” Coop said.
“You haven’t changed and you never will,” Ava told him. “You’re inflexible and dogmatic. You won’t take risks.”
“So you keep reminding me,” he said. All the color left his face. I knew exactly what she was doing. Sure, his ego might be smarting, but if she brought back the signatures—and they ended up proving that Natalie had done something illegal—then Ava would be the hero. And here I was, wallowing in faulty thinking and practically eating my own hair over recipes that may or may not ever be found. Meanwhile, Ava gets the guy by being plucky and fearless. But if that cookbook was found, I’d not only lose the guy, I’d lose my freedom.
“He will, too, take risks,” I said. “He saved a drowning girl in Lake Bonaventure. Boats were cutting in too close. But Coop wasn’t worried for himself. He just plunged in and saved the girl’s life.”
“I’d forgotten that,” he said.
“That’s not the kind of risks I meant.” Ava pushed back her hair. “Are you staying or going, Teeny?”
“How she gonna slip past the tails?” Red Butler asked.
“Simple.” Ava turned to me. “Teeny, exit by the back door and walk to the pier. And take your mobile phone.”
“I don’t have one.”
She reached into her purse. “Here, take my mobile. Go to the beach. Walk toward the pier.”
“Why does she need a freaking phone?” Red Butler asked.
“Haven’t you been listening?” Ava asked. “If the police see her, I’ll ring her. Simple.”
I pulled off my shoes and tucked the phone into the right toe.
“You’re certain you’re up to this?” Ava asked.
“Yes.” And I was. This was my chance to break the mold and be daring. I looked at Coop for a split second, and his sad eyes broke my heart. Red Butler’s face was dark purple, with veins popping on his forehead.
The wind kicked up the hem of my dress as I walked onto the deck and hurried down the back steps. The sky was the color of blueberries and spilled into the ocean. I had serious doubts about Ava’s plan. She’d all but said she was an adrenaline junkie, but she also wanted Coop. If she had a chance to undermine me, wouldn’t she take it?
I walked down the beach toward a three-sto
ry white house with blue shutters. A clump of sea oats grew behind a wavy wooden fence and blocked my view of the road. I heard a shrill ring. I reached into my shoe and lifted the squawking phone.
“Teeny?” came Ava’s clipped voice. “Are you there?”
“Yes.” I glanced back at Coop’s house. It was a tiny gray speck, no bigger than the head of a match.
“Your escorts haven’t moved,” she said. “Meet you at the pier.”
thirty
The ride to Bing’s house was even more terrifying than Miss Dora’s speed-a-thon over Wappoo Creek. Ava turned into the subdivision, zooming past empty lots into the cul-de-sac. Just as I’d expected, the driveway was blocked with yellow tape.
Ava switched off her light and drove into an empty lot, the weeds and palmettos whipping against her tires. She parked behind an oleander bush and removed her helmet. I slid off the bike, and the weight of my helmet almost tipped me forward.
“Steady.” Ava grabbed my arm. She unsnapped my helmet and slung it over the back bar. Then she opened the carrier compartment and pulled out a snub-nosed revolver.
“What’s that for?” I stepped back. I should have guessed; she was totally going to shoot me.
“Self-defense.” She grabbed a slender flashlight and tucked it into her pocket. “Lead the way, Teeny.”
I didn’t like the idea of walking in front of her, so I ran through the waist-high weeds. I was out of breath when I reached the peach tree stump. I started past the badminton net when I saw car lights sweep through the trees.
“Down!” Ava tugged my arm. We crouched behind the azaleas and tracked the lights. They moved over the trees and circled back as the car made a U-turn and left the cul-de-sac. We waited a moment longer, then crept to the patio.
Ava reached for her flashlight and aimed it at the door. My hand shook as I fit the key into the lock. The day Bing had been murdered, this same door had stood open. I’d taken the key, meaning to set it on the counter; instead, I’d picked up Sir and put the key in my handbag. But who’d left the key in the lock? Had I been meant to find it?
Gone With a Handsomer Man Page 18