“Yeah, miss one, and it’s a misdemeanor,” Coop said.
“Can’t they test T-Bone and see if he’s infected?” Red asked.
“They’d have to cut off his head.”
“Screw that,” Red Butler said.
“If the skunk’s rabid, they’ll euthanize T-Bone.” Coop released the chair and stepped back. “I’ve got to find his health record and drive to Edisto. I’ll call later.”
Before I could untangle my feet and rise from the chair, he’d shot into the hall, his footsteps echoing over the hall floor. I sat there a minute, wondering if I should run after him or head to the kitchen and make Bitter Peach Pickles. It called for lots of vinegar, chopped onions, alum, and peaches, of course. I wouldn’t feed them to Ava or Natalie. I’d eat them myself.
“Hey, Teens,” Red Butler said. He was leaning in the doorway, giving me the eye. “Stop thinking bad thoughts.”
“I’m not.”
“Right. You’re easy to read. You’re hoping a tidal wave hits Edisto and washes Ava out to sea.” He spread his hands wide. “Gone with the surf. An act of God.”
“Wrong.” But he’d seen the truth. If I couldn’t control my tell-all face, I’d just have to wear a mask. I started into the house, but he was right behind me.
“Boss can’t help this. He and Ava worship that dog and vice versa. She’s T-Bone’s mama. And Boss is the papa.”
“I know that. I like T-Bone, too.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But if you want the boss, you better get with the program.”
“What program?” I said irritably.
“You don’t know what you’re up against,” he said. “You better get a strategy.”
“For what?”
“Ava is a beautiful pain in the ass. Competitive, impulsive, exciting. Going in fifteen directions at once. Boss is a rock. She needs his stability. The way he follows the rules and thinks things through. If she’s with a man like herself, it’s a disaster. She can’t be with nobody but the boss.”
“What about him? Can he be with anyone else?”
“Jury’s out on that one. You’re the first woman he’s dated since they split up.”
I blinked, trying to decide if this was due to heartbreak or lack of time.
“Boss ain’t perfect. He won’t take risks. Just once Ava wants to see him put his neck on the line for her. But he won’t.”
“Yes, he will. He saved that drowning girl.”
“But that girl wasn’t Ava. You can love someone and not give them what they want.”
“How do you know all this? Did Ava tell you?”
“Lots of times. I don’t know what it is about me, but women tell me their problems. Always have. I ‘get’ them. I know how their freaking minds work.”
“How does Ava’s work?”
“She’s a man’s wet dream. She flies planes and digs up thousand-year-old bones. A little on the skinny side, but her tits make up for it.” He gestured at his chest. “And you’re the homegirl. Cute. Not too skinny. Great hair. Big heart. Not too educated. Homegirl talks tough, but she’s a softie. A little frightened on the inside but tries like hell to hide it. Men need a homegirl. She’ll watch your back. She’ll be there for you.”
“Right now, I’ve got to be there for The Picky Palate.” I walked past him, into the kitchen, and began setting out flour, sugar, and a bowl. I was stirring the batter when Red Butler appeared in the doorway, his thumbs tucked under his armpits.
“The boss is pulled between you and her. He’s attracted to the differences. Ava’s brave. You’re skittish. You can cook. She eats men. You’re local. She’s foreign. Which girl gets the happy ending?” He shrugged. “It’s a tough call.”
“Ava wants happiness, too.”
He pointed to the mixing bowl. “You’re crying in the batter. You’re gonna ruin the cake and your life. Hand me the spoon and go wash your face.”
thirty-six
The worries took hold with a vengeance while I baked and iced those cakes. History was repeating. I understood what was happening much better this time around, but a part of me was still seventeen years old, sitting on Aunt Bluette’s porch swing, planning to bake a sunflower cake for Coop, and dithering over the icing. I struggled to move beyond my selfish heart. What if Coop hadn’t found T-Bone’s health records? The state would hold the dog. I worried that the skunk was rabid. If so, Red Butler said everyone who’d come in contact with T-Bone after his encounter with the skunk would get rabies shots—and T-Bone would be put to sleep.
The next morning, I still hadn’t heard from Coop. Red Butler and I made a delivery to The Picky Palate. Jan gave me an order for a dozen more red velvet cakes. “They’re for one person,” she said. “Apparently they had a fit over your other cakes. Can you have them ready in forty-eight hours? If you can, I’ll do sixty-forty.”
“Deal,” I said.
* * *
Red Butler parked on Adgers and I dragged a laptop computer from his van. He grabbed another armful of cookbooks. When we reached the intersection, I spotted Eileen’s catmobile at the corner. For all I knew, she’d tapped my phone and hung the stuffed bulldog.
“Bing’s sister is back,” I said.
He dropped the cookbooks and took off running. The Winnebago’s brake lights turned bright red and a plume of smoke drifted from the tailpipe. The RV blasted toward the Battery.
He came back and showed me numbers he’d written on his hand. “I got the bitch’s license number. You got wireless Internet?”
“I think so. If not, there’s a phone jack below the desk. What you looking up?”
“First, I’m going to find this cat fanatic. Then I’m doing a background check on Natalie.”
He set up his laptop on the kitchen desk. I leafed through my books and found a red velvet cake recipe that could be doubled. I wanted to make good use of Uncle Elmer’s double convection ovens before I had to move. I mixed the ingredients, poured the batter into six greased pans, and slid them into the ovens.
“I hope you find plenty,” I said.
“Before Miss Loonhart moved to Charleston, she lived in Savannah. Worked at a bank. Divorced in 1998 from a used car salesman. He claimed she tried to kill him, but the charges didn’t stick. Anyways, she got herself another bank job, a loan officer. Started fooling around with one of the married VPs. Big scandal. He got divorced and married Natalie. A year later, he died in his sleep.”
“How old was he?”
“Fifty-two.”
“That’s young.”
“She could’ve screwed him to death. The Savannah coroner said it was a heart attack. But get this, the banker had a $500,000 life insurance policy. Natalie went to live with her aunt. Alice E. Wauford. I’m checking her out next.”
The doorbell chimed. I patted Red Butler’s shoulder. “Maybe that’s Coop. Keep an eye on my cakes?”
“You betcha.”
Sir was right on my heels as I grabbed the key and stepped into the corridor. A man and woman stood on the other side of the iron grille. “Can I help you?” I called, folding my arms. Sir must have picked up on my tone and body language. He ran to the gate and barked.
“Sorry to disturb you,” the woman said, “but we’re the Randolphs. We met the other day? We’re buying the Spencer-Jackson House?”
“I remember you,” I said.
“The closing date is around the corner, and I wanted my designer to have a look.”
I lifted Sir and unlocked the gate with my free hand. “Come on in,” I said. Mr. Randolph shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed, but his wife stepped through, followed by a perky woman with auburn hair. A low rumble started in Sir’s throat.
“He won’t bite, will he?” The auburn-haired woman put her fingers in her mouth.
“He never has.” I stroked Sir’s head. “I’ll just put him in the kitchen. Y’all look around all you want. The door’s open.”
I walked down the corridor, into the hall. The designer was eyeing the
baseboards. “Is the puppy housebroken?”
“Housetrained.” I crossed the hall, into the raspberry dining room, into the butler’s pantry, and reached out one hand to shut the pocket doors. “Be nice,” I told Sir when I set him down. He looked up at me and growled under his breath, his stubby tail wagging. I turned into the kitchen.
Red Butler swiveled in the chair. “The boss here?”
“No, it’s the couple who bought the house.” I shrugged. “Their decorator came with them.”
“That’s some nerve.” He shook his head. “No way that sale is going through.”
“I didn’t want to bring up the forged signature,” I said.
“You trying to give me a heart attack? Anyhow, it’s alleged forgery. If the DA proves that Natalie did it, she’ll go to the pokey. We’re talking murder, grand larceny, and criminal possession of a forged instrument.”
“The new buyers are closing next week. The law can’t fix this by then.”
“The boss knows how to slow things down.”
“Boy, does he ever,” I said. A soothing vanilla smell wafted from the ovens. I took a breath, then found a clean bowl and began mixing ingredients. The sound of feminine voices echoed along the high ceilings. The pocket doors banged open, and the decorator strode into the kitchen, trailed by the couple.
“I see a terra-cotta ceiling,” the designer said, waving her hands. “Let’s jerk out the granite. It’s so passé. We’ll replace it with concrete.”
“Concrete?” Mr. Randolph looked shocked.
“Concrete,” the designer said with a decisive nod. She faced the old brick wall behind the cooktop and made a scrubbing motion with her hands. “The bricks are old, but they’re probably not original. So, let’s get rid of them.”
“I kinda like them,” said Mrs. Randolph, and her husband nodded.
The decorator wrinkled her nose, as if she’d caught the scent of dead mice in the walls. “You can try painting them. I’d go with black. It’ll make those white cabinets pop. But honestly? I’d get a demolition crew in here and knock out those bricks.”
“And replace them with what?” Mrs. Randolph asked.
“Copper. I see copper.” The designer’s heels snapped over the floor as she bustled around the room. She opened the dishwasher, peered inside, and moved to the warming oven. “Do the appliances work?”
“Yes.” I nodded.
“That’s too bad, they’re kinda generic. I’d prefer a Wolf range, Sub-Zero fridge, and Asko dishwashers—two of them will be perfect for entertaining. Are those ovens Thermador?” The designer stopped by the ovens and started to open the top door.
“No!” I shouted.
She jumped back, her hair swinging. “What?” she cried.
“My cakes,” I said. “They’ll fall.”
Sir growled again and scooted under the desk. He rested his head on his paws. The designer frowned. “I don’t really like animals,” she said. “Are you sure he isn’t doing poo-poo all over the floors?”
“He’s not. I promise.”
“Who decorated the kitchen?” asked the designer.
“I’m not sure. Dora Jackson did the other rooms.”
“That explains a lot.” She glanced into the dining room and smirked. “That woman is in the wrong profession. If she likes pink things, she should’ve been a gynecologist. ”
I crossed my arms, ready to defend Miss Dora with my last breath, but the designer smiled. “Do you know the history of the house?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You don’t have a file? No research?”
“I’m sure Natalie Lockhart will know,” I said. From the desk chair, Red Butler turned and gave me a warning glance.
“It would be lovely if we knew the original colors,” the designer continued. “I like to keep things authentic.” She opened a cabinet and pulled out a china plate with a bird pattern. “Do the contents come with the house?”
“I’m sure it’s all laid out in your contract,” I said, glancing at the cookbooks above Red Butler’s head. If I had to steal them again, I’d have no qualms. I thought about Uncle Elmer’s homemade music CDs, his extensive dish collection, and his secret stash of pot. Who would be the recipient of his belongings?
The designer turned to the Randolphs. “You might consider selling the art and accessories. I know antique dealers who’ll give you a pretty penny.”
“I like some of the stuff,” Mrs. Randolph said.
“The pink needs to go.”
“But the outside of the house is pink,” said Mrs. Randolph. “It matches.”
“A pink facade is one thing,” said the decorator, “but inside? An abomination.”
The designer faced me. “When will you be out?”
“Thursday at midnight,” I said.
The designer walked over to the French doors. “A harvest table should go right here,” she said, then glanced out at the garden. “Mind if we go outside?” she asked.
“Sure.” I waved.
The Randolphs followed the woman down the steps, onto the patio. The phone trilled, and Red Butler answered with a gruff hello. He sat up a little straighter. “Hello?” he said again. His face softened. “Oh, okay. Just a minute.” He held out the phone. “It’s for you, Teeny.”
Judging from his baffled expression, I didn’t think Coop was calling. And Miss Dora knew about the tap, so most likely it wasn’t her, either.
“Who is it?” I whispered.
“A woman.” He shrugged.
Frowning, I took the receiver. “Yes?”
“It’s Natalie,” said a breathless voice. “Is this phone tapped?”
I caught Red Butler’s eye and said, “It’s not tapped, Natalie.”
He nodded and made an OK sign.
“Fine.” Natalie released a theatrical sigh. “We need to talk. I know who killed Bing.”
“You know who killed Bing?” I tilted the phone so Red Butler could hear her reply.
“Shhh, be quiet,” Natalie said. “God knows who’s listening. Can we meet?”
“I’ll be home most of the day,” I said. “Come over.”
“I can’t.” Her voice broke. “See, they’re watching you.”
“The detectives? They aren’t interested in you.”
“Don’t you get it? The watchers are being watched. Come to my house right now.”
“Watchers?” I said.
Red Butler pointed to his ear and made little circles. “Looney tunes,” he whispered.
I wasn’t too sure. Someone else was watching? I’d spouted off about those sex tapes and fake signatures.
“I can’t come right now,” I said. “The Randolphs are here with their decorator—unless you want me to kick them out.”
“No!” She released an agonized sob. “Look, I’m risking my life just talking to you.”
“Then call the police. Tell them what you know.”
Red Butler lifted his thumb. “Perfect,” he mouthed.
“If you want to talk,” I said, “you’ll have to come here.”
“Impossible. Just come after the Randolphs leave. I’ll wait. Just don’t make me wait too long. I’ve got something you want.”
“What?”
“A surprise.”
Red Butler mouthed, “Get her addy.”
“Where do you live?” I asked her.
“You know where Hermosa Country Club is? My house is the last one on Persimmon Lane, way back in the cul-de-sac. Peach stucco with dark green shutters. Are you writing all this down?”
“Got it.”
“Be careful. Make sure you’re not followed—and bring that tape.” She hung up with a decisive click.
Red Butler took the phone from my hand and set it in the cradle. “It’s a trap,” he said. “You can’t go alone.”
“Her sex tape is at Coop’s.” I opened a drawer and grabbed a band.
“You can’t get it.” He popped his knuckles.
“What about the surprise?” I p
ulled back my hair and rubber-banded it.
“Teeny, you’re too innocent. The bitch plans to shoot you.”
The decorator walked through the French doors, trailed by the Randolphs, and began to outline her visions for the kitchen. I was having serious doubts about going to Natalie’s. I pulled Red Butler aside.
“My phone is tapped, right?” I whispered.
He nodded and glanced at the decorator. She was going on about the brick wall again.
I moved closer to him. “So, the police heard what Natalie said?”
“You don’t understand wiretapping,” he said. “The po-po aren’t sitting in a van, listening to your calls. Everything’s taped, and it’s miles away. I don’t know how often the police are checking, or how efficiently. I’m still waiting to hear about the trace on your death threat call. But the Radio Shack box is another story. The device isn’t taping your calls; it’s sending them via a wireless connection. So, yeah, whoever did the tap could be listening.”
“Bing’s sister is hanging around in her Winnebago. Maybe she did it.”
“Could be.” He handed me his cell phone. “I’m going to talk to the boys outside. While I’m gone, call the boss. He’s on speed dial. Tell him where we’re going.”
After he left, I scrolled through the menu, and pressed Boss. When Coop’s voice mail picked up, I hesitated. What to say? Come save me, Coop. My crisis is bigger than Ava’s. I hung up.
Red Butler walked into the kitchen just as the decorator was herding the Randolphs out of the house. “The boys outside are gonna follow us to Natalie’s house,” he said. “You talk to Coop?”
“He didn’t answer.”
On the way to his van, he called Ava. “Coop with you?” He paused. “You know where he’s at?” Another pause. “Damn, that stinks, don’t it? Listen, if you hear from the boss, tell him to call.”
He hung up and said, “Ava’s having a breakdown. She produced T-Bone’s health records, but he’s still in quarantine. The state’s suffering from budget cuts. Everything moves slower. If they don’t call in a few days, it means the skunk wasn’t rabid. Then T-Bone can come home.”
Red Butler glanced up and down the street, his sunglasses reflecting cars and buildings. Eileen’s RV was parked by the seawall. As we walked toward it, I heard meowing, but I didn’t see her anywhere.
Gone With a Handsomer Man Page 23