Gone With a Handsomer Man

by Michael Lee West

  “I wish I hadn’t told you that.”

  “So, you’re thinking you and him reconnected by happenstance? Or for a reason, like y’all are meant to be together?”

  I had thought that, but I gave him a hard look.

  “Girlie, you’re making too much out of this. Don’t you understand the psychology behind a first love? It ain’t who the person is but what they represent. It was the first time you probably felt strong emotions for someone other than blood kin. You follow me?”

  I nodded.

  “See, the heart is tight and virginal. A first love makes you bleed. It opens the heart fully. That’s why people can’t forget their first loves. They show us just how deep the love can go. That’s my take on it, anyway.”

  “You could give Dr. Phil a run for his money.”

  “Who’d want to?” He grinned.

  * * *

  I fixed a red-potato frittata, adding chopped bacon and onions. Since I was in a cooking mood, I made a corn and tomato salad with sweet mayonnaise dressing. I set the patio table with blue-and-white floral dishes, added a vase filled with hydrangeas, and called Red Butler to the garden.

  He ate in silence, scraping his fork over the plate. I cut another wedge of frittata and slipped it onto his plate. He dug in greedily. “Damn, this is good,” he said.

  “Save room for your cake,” I said.

  “Answer me something, Teeny. What if you don’t go to jail? What if you find some guy and get married? Have lots of kids. Would you keep baking cakes and selling them, or would you kick back and take it easy?”

  Some guy? I repressed a smile. Now that I’d eaten, I was in a better mood. I clasped my hands and stretched them over my head. “I’ll always bake,” I said.

  “Even if you don’t have to?”

  “The whole process just tickles me,” I said. “I like matching food to people and filling up their empty spaces.”

  “You sound like my daddy. He was all eat up with food. Back when Charleston had a chef school, he wanted to go, but it cost a fortune. So my daddy, he taught himself how to cook.” He pointed at the frittata. “Something like this takes skill.”

  He moved on to the cake. If I’d had time, I would have made crème frâiche. An iced cake is always tastier with something dense and slightly sour. If you want to cook good food, you have to think like a cook. It’s messy. Cooking isn’t a clean activity. It’s not a stage set on Food Network, where ingredients are waiting in clear bowls and everything follows a script.

  Every now and then, you must deal with dough that just won’t rise. Do you start over? Knead the dough, cover it with a warm, moist towel, and hope for the best? Relationships are the same way. You can think you are following a recipe, you can do everything right, and your product might turn out indigestible. If it smells like bread, it may not be bread.

  After Red Butler finished his cake, he loaded the dishwasher while I put my cookbooks onto the shelf above the desk. The phone trilled. It was decorative, made to look French. It even rang French. I picked up, hoping it was Coop. “Hey.”

  Silence.

  “Is anyone there?”

  “Die,” a voice said. It was female, but I couldn’t place it.

  I banged down the receiver like I was crushing a wasp and stepped back.

  “Damn, what’d they say?” Red Butler asked.

  I put my hand over my mouth. It took me a few seconds to compose myself. “They said, ‘Die.’”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Woman.”

  He lifted the phone. It jangled when he turned it upside down. “You got caller ID?”

  “No.”

  “The police have this number tapped. Maybe they heard. Has this fucker called here before?”

  “Once. But she didn’t say anything.”

  “Where’s your gate key?”

  “In the bowl.”

  He walked into the dining room, into the hall. I heard the front door open, heard his footsteps clap over the bricks. I ran to the kitchen window and saw him bearing down on the stakeout car. He rapped on their window. It inched down, and I saw the short, gray-eyed cop’s forehead. Red Butler yelled, thick cords standing out on his neck. His left arm flew into the air and he shook his fist. Then he hurried back to the house and slammed the door. “Bastards!”

  I pushed away from the window and ran into the hall. “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re checking it out.” He looked at me from under his eyebrows. “Why didn’t you tell me about that other call?”

  “I told Coop. He thought it was Natalie. So did I.”

  “It prolly is, but you don’t know for sure. People are meaner and crazier than they used to be. ‘Die’ is a big fucking deal. It’s a threat.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “You should be scared.” He pointed at me. “Don’t you keep nothing from me again. Nothing. Your life may depend on it.”

  thirty-five

  At five o’clock, I went upstairs to take a bath. The room was larger than Aunt Bluette’s living room and reminded me of a chessboard, with black-and-white tiles on the floor and walls. Monogrammed towels hung from silver rings, EJ, for Elmer Jackson.

  I leaned into the claw-foot tub, pushed the stopper into the drain, and switched on the faucet. While the tub filled, I opened the linen closet. Towels were stacked on one shelf, toilet paper on another. I pulled out a black plaid towel and saw the top of a ziplock bag. I bent closer. The bag was filled with dried oregano and a glass pipe. Except I was pretty sure this wasn’t a cooking herb. I blinked. Had Bing’s late uncle been a doper?

  I undressed, then eased down into the steaming tub and thought about Uncle Elmer. I’d never met him. Prior to his death, he’d been something of a recluse because of Alzheimer’s. He hadn’t attended Miss Dora’s party, and she’d told me not to take offense, that poor Elmer never went anywhere. Yet he’d left this house long enough to buy drugs. Or, maybe they’d been delivered.

  I made a note to tell Coop about the marijuana, then I climbed out of the tub and reached for the towel. I didn’t want to put back on the clothes I’d worn all day, so I tucked the towel at my breasts and stepped across the hall to my bedroom.

  I didn’t have perfume: a little vanilla extract on my pulse points would have to suffice. The dollar store underwear and bra fit nicely. I put on the cream shirt and rolled the sleeves above my elbows. The buttons started at my breast bone, and I wished I had Aunt Bluette’s long cameo necklace. That would have been a nice touch.

  I removed the tags from the white denims I’d bought and slipped them on. A perfect fit. I’d have to quit spending money on clothes. I needed other things. Even a cheap apartment would require a deposit. I could do without furniture, but not electricity and water.

  Of course, I had a good chance of ending up in jail. While my utilities would be covered, I couldn’t see Coop and me talking through a partition, heating the air with heavy breathing, drawing I ♥ You’s on the glass.

  Six o’clock came and went. I didn’t see Red Butler anywhere, so I took Templeton Family Receipts to the pink living room and curled up in a wing chair. It faced a long window that overlooked East Bay. Sir stretched on the floor, his stumpy legs splayed behind him. Each time a car went by, I jumped up and Sir scrambled to his feet.

  “Poor baby,” I told him. “I’m wearing you out.”

  I honed in on Aunt Bluette’s handwriting and looked for her recipes. I found two for Italian cream cake, both with minor variations. I turned a page and ran my finger over Mama’s back-slanted script. She’d jotted down Luke 23:43, plus Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise,” adding a recipe for onion-bacon meat patties.

  Another car passed down East Bay. I got up to look at the gold dolphin clock on the desk. Almost seven o’clock. I walked to the bookcase. In the cabinet I found a CD player and turned it on. Muse began to sing “Unintended, ” a song about a man who’d found his true love, only he was still in another relationship.

>   Uncle Elmer must have been an interesting guy. He’d smoked marijuana, listened to alternative music, and lived in this fussy old house. He’d even let Miss Dora fill it with pinkness. I would have liked him tremendously. As long as I was the custodian of his home, I would take care of it.

  The music changed to a Cary Brothers song, “Ride,” which is about a man asking the love of his life to risk everything and go off with him. Coop had every reason in the world to ride away from me—if he dallied with a client, he could be disbarred. Dammit, why did everything have to be black or white? Couldn’t we be friends by day and go into a gray area after dark? We could step into Uncle Elmer’s dish closet, surrounded by pewter cups and silver trays, and do what we wanted.

  No sooner had those self-pitying thoughts crossed my mind when the doorbell rang. Sir trotted over with a “Shall I eat them?” look in his eyes.

  I set the cookbook on the cushion and walked to the corridor. Coop was waiting by the iron gate, one hand braced against the stucco wall. The gas lantern flickered over his pale yellow shirt. I unlocked the gate and studied his face. His hair was windblown and he gripped a file folder under his arm. His eyes had the tired, unfocused glaze of someone who’d been driving for hours.

  “I was getting worried,” I said.

  “I just got back from the state lab in Columbia.” He walked past me toward the gray door. No welcoming kiss, no accidental brushing of the arms. I bolted the gate and we walked into the foyer.

  “I have good news,” he said. “The forensic expert says the signature isn’t Bing’s.”

  “Natalie lied? I knew it!”

  “She did more than lie. We’ll need to do a full-bore investigation into her background. My guess is, she’s no stranger to forgery. I’ve called the DA and the state attorney general.”

  I was having trouble breathing. I tried to relax as music drifted from the house.

  “The police still have you under surveillance,” Coop said. “We need more evidence that points to Natalie.”

  “The fake signature isn’t enough?”

  “I have to prove that she forged it.” He paused. “Where’s Red?”

  “He was in the garden earlier.” I started toward the back door and he caught my arm.

  “Teeny,” he began.

  “What?” I had the feeling he was withholding bad news, something about the murder. Or maybe he’d gotten back with Ava. He stared until the music changed, and Coldplay began to sing “Yellow.”

  “Just say it,” I whispered. I stepped closer. I thought he might jerk back, but his hands moved down to my hips. I stood on my toes and kissed him. And he kissed me back. He was all I’d ever wanted. If this was true love, then my other relationships had been pale imitations.

  His hips moved against mine. Something hard pressed against my hipbone. I gently sucked his tongue and the taste was pure yellow. I’d never thought of love being a color, but here it was, a sweet taste in my mouth. Banana pudding, pineapple fluff, lemon ice, meringue pie.

  “Yodelayheehoo!” Red Butler called.

  We broke apart. Coop drew back and folded his arms. I started for the back door, wiping the edges of my mouth. I stepped into the garden, moving through the heavy night air. It smelled like rain was on the way. Coop shot ahead and grabbed one of the iron patio chairs and waved, indicating I should sit.

  “How’d it go, Boss?”

  “The signature was forged,” Coop said. “I need you to get the dirt on Natalie Lockhart.”

  “Oh, I have been digging.” Red Butler shrugged. “She moved to Charleston five months ago. Got a job at Jackson Realty.”

  “You talked to the other real estate agents?” Coop asked.

  “They don’t want to touch this while Miss Lockhart is still working at the agency. You’ll have to depose them.”

  “What about the redhead?” I asked.

  “Who?” Coop sat down next to me.

  “Faye Carr?” Red Butler said. “The other naked badminton player. Teeny busted the gal’s nose pretty bad. Anyhow, this Faye works for an escort service. I doubt that’s her real name. But that’s as far as I got. The stuffed dog incident derailed me. Plus, Teeny got a threatening call.”

  “Another one?” Coop asked.

  “Yeah, only this time they said, ‘Die.’” Red Butler bit down on a cigar. “You mind?” he asked me.

  I shook my head.

  Coop put one hand to his temple. “We need to file a police report.”

  “Relax. Already did. The dicks are looking. Should be easy peasy to see who called Teeny.” Red Butler smoked fiercely for a few seconds. “But they aren’t the only ones listening in to her calls. The boys found a line running down the front of the house. It went to a shitty box from Radio Shack.”

  “Somebody other than the police have tapped the phones?” I cried.

  “Looks that way, girlie.”

  “Did the police remove it?” I cried.

  “Not till they find out who put it there,” Red Butler said. “They’ll come back. If I had to bet, I’d say it’s that Loonhart dame. She set you up. Now she’s keeping tabs.”

  “We’ll nail her, Teeny,” Coop said.

  “What if she ain’t working alone?” Red Butler blew a smoke ring. “Maybe some badass guy is her accomplice.”

  “He’d have to be tall,” I said, thinking of that chandelier. “Whoever killed Bing was there when I arrived. I got tased. Why didn’t she—or he—just kill me?”

  “Who knows what happened that day? Don’t question the angels, girlie.” Red Butler glanced at my neck. “You wasn’t tased. Or you would’ve saw.”

  “Saw what?” I asked.

  “It would’ve paralyzed you, but you would’ve been conscious.”

  “Teeny’s marks were consistent with a stun gun,” Coop said.

  “What’s the difference?” I asked.

  “An 800,000-volt stun gun will knock out a man for twenty minutes,” Red Butler said. “How much you weigh, Teeny?”

  I gave him the stink eye. If I was on my deathbed and doctors wanted to know my weight to adjust my medicine, I’d just have to pass away. What I weigh is nobody’s damn business. Not that I was fooling anyone with my vanity, but if I didn’t say the numbers, they weren’t real. So I changed the subject.

  “Maybe the redheaded girl was involved?” I said.

  “Nah, I’m thinking she was a hired whore,” Red Butler said. “Brought in for your benefit. To make sure you broke up with your boyfriend. They wanted you out of the way.”

  I repressed a shiver. Whoever had killed Bing had planned it carefully. They were smart, and I was naive.

  Red Butler leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knees. “If the redhead was hired, then Natalie had insider knowledge. She knew you’d catch them.”

  “That means she knew my cake decorating class was canceled,” I said. “What if she was in Bing’s house when the teacher called?”

  Red Butler shrugged. “She could’ve checked your mail or checked the answering machine.”

  “Or Bing may have told her,” Coop said.

  “Doubt that.” Red Butler said. “No man wants to get caught in a slutfest. Who else knew about your cake classes?”

  “No one.” I glanced at Coop.

  He jiggled his car keys. Even if I was cleared, the taint would stick to me, and to him. At some point, we’d have to leave the bedroom and look for friends. Here in Charleston, coupling up was a normal thing. It was probably normal everywhere. Easy solution: move. But hadn’t he already been through this with Ava?

  Coop’s cell phone buzzed. A female voice drifted up, British. “Wait, he killed it?” he asked, then paused. “Damn. Where are you now?”

  Red Butler bit down on his cigar and tipped back his head. Coop was making sympathetic noises. “Hang on. I’ll be right there.”

  He dropped the phone into his pocket and turned. “That was Ava.”

  “Who got killed?” Red Butler asked.

  “A sku
nk. T-Bone killed it down in Edisto.”

  “Sheeit,” Red Butler wrinkled his nose. “Did he get sprayed?”

  “Yeah, big time.”

  “What was Ava doing in Edisto?” Red Butler asked.

  “Looking at property.”

  “Harebrained idea, if you ask me.” Red Butler waved his cigar.

  What was harebrained? And why was T-Bone with Ava? I was nervous about the time line. Coop had left my house at 9:00 a.m. this morning to meet with the handwriting expert. When he showed up tonight, he said he’d just gotten back. If he’d been in Columbia all day, how had T-Bone ended up with Ava? Simple, either Coop had left a key under the mat or he’d gone home to meet her.

  I was breathing too fast—where had I put my inhaler? “What kind of property is Ava looking at?” I asked, not caring if I was prying.

  “She wants to build a house on the Edisto River.” Coop stood and grabbed the back of the chair, his fingers curling around the iron spindles. “She’s been looking for land.”

  Right. A house. She was putting down roots. She hadn’t come back to South Carolina on a romantic whim. I pressed a hand against my midriff. My lips felt tingly, and I couldn’t get a satisfying breath.

  “Ava’s frantic,” Coop said. “I should go.”

  “For a dead skunk?” Red Butler snorted.

  “The realtor is making a big fuss.” Coop kept jiggling his keys. “Apparently the woman’s married to a veterinarian. She said skunks don’t come out in the daytime unless they’re rabid. She started making phone calls. Now the health department is involved. Some guys showed up and cut off the skunk’s head.”

  “Jesus on an emery stick,” Red Butler said.

  “They took T-Bone. Quarantined him.”

  “Did the skunk bite T-Bone?” I wrapped my feet around the chair’s legs.

  “No, but the vet is saying that rabies is transmitted by body fluids. And T-Bone bit the skunk.”

  “Ain’t he been vaccinated, Boss?”

  “Last August. It was a three-year vaccine.”

  “So he’s covered, right?” I said.

  “It’s not 100 percent. Dogs are supposed to be vaccinated annually.”

  “A damn racket.” Red Butler snorted.