Gone With a Handsomer Man

by Michael Lee West

  I climbed into Red Butler’s van. Before I could fasten my seat belt, he did a U-turn and blasted onto East Bay. He wasn’t the smoothest driver, but I was glad to have him as my chaperone. Not only did he understand the city’s streets and alleys, he understood the twists and turns of the heart. And if Natalie pulled anything, he was packing a gun.

  thirty-seven

  Natalie’s stucco house sat on a half acre lot behind a thick screen of oak trees. A Jackson Realty sign was staked on the immaculate lawn. Red Butler turned up the pea gravel drive.

  “Ritzy fitzy,” he said and pointed to a white BMW convertible. “That her car? SOSEX-E.”

  “Is it ever.”

  “Let’s go see the loon.” Red Butler cracked open his door.

  “Shouldn’t I go alone?” I asked.

  “You kidding?” He flipped his hand at the house. “Look at all them windows. She’s prolly watching with binoculars.”

  We walked to the porch, past a concrete bunny that held a “welcome” sign. Potted ferns and impatiens spilled out of urns, making a pathway to the door, which was adorned with a fake magnolia wreath.

  Red Butler peeked through the sidelight while I pressed the bell. It squawked, putting me in mind of an indignant chicken. I squinted through the sidelight, too. A stairway curved up into shadows, and paintings of nude women were staggered on the wall.

  Red Butler opened his cell and punched in numbers. “It’s me,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the Camry. “Miss Lockhart won’t open the door.”

  The detectives got out of the car and headed toward us, looking grim. I stepped to the edge of the porch to get out of the way. Red Butler grabbed my arm. “Don’t be scared of them,” he whispered. “They’re just regular dicks, okay? They got names and families. The short fellow is Boudreaux and he likes hot sauce. Baldy’s name is Lennox and he’s got newborn twins.”

  Boudreaux ran up the steps and pressed his stubby finger against the doorbell. Again, the two notes screaked. “Police, open up!” he called.

  Lennox walked up and rapped on the sidelights.

  “She ain’t coming,” Red Butler said. “Will it take long to get a warrant?” he asked.

  “What makes you think we’ll need one?” Lennox asked. He banged harder on the door, and the wreath fell off. “Miss Lockhart?” he yelled. “Police.”

  I reached down to pick up the wreath, and Red Butler grabbed my hands. “Don’t touch nothing, homegirl.”

  The detectives split in different directions and walked around the house. Red Butler and I trailed after Boudreaux. Afternoon light glanced off a swimming pool. Lounge chairs with white cushions lined up on the pavement. Pink petunias spilled out of concrete urns, with damp circles spreading from each one. They’d been watered, and not too long ago.

  We followed Boudreaux up the deck. At the far end, the French doors stood open, showing a blue and white kitchen. Boudreaux poked his head inside, then he scrambled back and called for backup and an ambulance.

  “What’s wrong?” I cried, and ran to the door. A pie sat on a white table. One wedge was missing. The scent of bitter almonds mixed in with the tang of rusty nails. I heard a gurgle and looked down. Natalie lay face up on the kitchen floor in a red puddle. Several feet away, next to an overturned chair, was a redheaded girl. I couldn’t see her face, but I recognized her hair. There was no blood, just broken pottery mixed with glazed peaches and pie crust.

  Bile shot into my throat. I ran to the edge of the pavement and was sick. A few moments later, I felt strong hands grip my shoulders and guide me to a lounge chair.

  “Sit down before you faint,” Red Butler said.

  “Couldn’t help it.” I spat. My right knee began to shimmy.

  “Don’t freak out,” he said. “Homegirl’s got an alibi. You ain’t taking the rap for this.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “The redhead is. Natalie’s still got a pulse.”

  “What if we’d come sooner?”

  “Hard to say. We might be coughing up blood, too.”

  The ambulance arrived, and the gurney rattled over the pavement. A policeman took my statement. Through the French doors, I watched EMTs working on Natalie. Another group of policemen arrived wearing biohazard suits.

  “What’s all that about?” I asked Red Butler as we walked around the house.

  He didn’t answer. Natalie’s neighbors were standing in the cul-de-sac, and a cop was trying to push them back. Red Butler’s van was blocked by police cars, so he started making phone calls. I heard him say, “Can you come to North Charleston and get Teeny?” He paused. “There’s been a shooting.” Another pause. “No, Ava. You got to stay with her.”

  Oh, crap, I thought. Not her.

  “Ava’s picking you up,” Red Butler said. “I know you don’t like her, but my van’s bottlenecked.”

  “Why can’t I just stay with you?”

  “Look at you.” He spread his hands. “You’re a wreck. Plus, there’s a murderer on the loose. You need looking after.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  “Yeah, but Ava’s got a gun and she knows how to use it.”

  It was a steaming hot June afternoon. Still, I couldn’t stop shaking. Maybe the murderer was standing in the crowd, watching and listening. Or maybe Natalie and the redhead had been in cahoots. “None of this makes sense,” I said.

  “Murder never does, kiddo. We may never know why Nataloon lured you here. But it’s clear that somebody’s after the coin. The Spencer-Jackson House is worth millions. You and Sir got squatter’s rights. So, please, let Ava keep you safe, okay? I know you don’t trust her ass, but she won’t let nothing get you. She’ll keep watch till the boss gets back.”

  “When will that be?”

  “He’ll be here when he gets here. If you love the boss, you gotta get used to long hours. He’ll always be saving somebody. This time it’s you. Next time, who knows?”

  Minutes later, a motorcycle nosed its way through the growing crowd. The policeman ran over to Ava, waving his arms. She shut off the engine and coasted to a stop. She pulled off her helmet, and the wind caught her hair, sending the dark curls rippling behind her.

  She tossed me a helmet. I missed because I was looking at her left hand: she was wearing her wedding rings. The helmet thumped against the pavement and rolled over to the policeman. He handed it to me.

  My hands shook as I shoved the helmet onto my head and climbed onto the back of the bike. I barely had time to grab her waist when the engine sputtered. The crowd parted, and the bike lunged forward down the heat-waved road.

  When we pulled up to the Spencer-Jackson House, I looked around for Eileen’s RV. It was gone. I unlocked the gate for Ava to roll her motorcycle into the corridor. She grabbed a lemon purse from the compartment—it was nearly identical to the one I’d bought, only hers had white leather trim instead of plastic. We had the same taste in men—why not pocketbooks?

  I went through the whole rigmarole of unlocking the door and shutting off the alarm, which should have comforted me but had the opposite effect. I set my purse on the bench and ran upstairs to fetch Sir. He trotted downstairs, snorting with pleasure, and scratched at the back door, pointedly ignoring Ava. I opened the door and he ran outside.

  “Cute dog,” she said.

  “How’s T-Bone?” I asked.

  “Still quarantined. I’ve been on the phone with the health department all day.” She set her pocketbook on the bench. “If we don’t hear anything horrid by tomorrow, T-Bone is in the clear. And he can come home.”

  “I’ve been praying for him.”

  “You believe in that?”

  “Yes.”

  She seemed pleased with my answer, but I couldn’t have said why.

  “I better get Sir.” I stepped into the garden and broke off a few lavender sprigs. Sir darted around the hydrangeas, his jowls swaying, and ran through the door, casting a suspicious glance at Ava, as if just noticing her for the first time
.

  She ignored his bark and smiled at me. “Can I help you do anything?”

  “Just make yourself at home. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  “Are you the type who cooks when she’s upset?”

  “Anything wrong with that?”

  “You just left a crime scene. How can you be in the mood to cook?”

  “If I waited for the mood to strike, I’d starve.” I walked toward the dining room and turned. “Do you have to be in the mood to dig?”

  She just stared.

  The pine floor creaked as we passed through the dining room, into the kitchen. She leaned against the island and folded her hands. I rinsed the lavender and set it on paper towels to dry. Shortbread was the most English dessert I could think of. Plus, lavender would defuse the catfight that was brewing.

  “Can you cook?” I asked.

  “Would that shock you?”

  It would. I set out a wooden block and a French knife. “Care to dice the lavender?”

  “You trust me with a knife?” She winked. “What are you making?”

  “Shortbread.”

  “How clever of you. Lavender, to calm the stomach and the mind.”

  Ava chopped the lavender into precise bits while I creamed the butter and sugar, then she watched me mix in the flour, salt, vanilla, and lavender. I started kneading the dough and she pressed her finger against it.

  “Shortbread feels like a baby’s bum.” She licked her knuckle. “My nana used to make this.”

  I hoped she’d keep talking, but she fell silent, watching my hands shape the dough into a circle and prick it with a fork.

  “My nana did that to shortbread.” Ava pointed to my fork. “She never said why.”

  “Prevents air bubbles,” I said.

  She smiled. “You don’t care for me, do you?”

  Not one bit. I hate your beautiful hair and your toned thighs. I hate that Coop has made love to you. Naturally I couldn’t tell the truth, but I’d told enough lies, so I decided to level with her—to a point.

  “You’re a great cookbook thief,” I said. “I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  Her smile widened. “You know why I came back to Charleston, don’t you?”

  “A lot of people come here. It’s a beautiful city.”

  “I want my husband. And I might have gotten him back if he hadn’t bumped into you at McTavish’s Pub.”

  I looked up. “How did you know I was at the pub?”

  “Cooper told me.”

  Right. Maybe she took that picture and sent it to the DA. I didn’t dare mention it—wasn’t that defamation? I had a sudden vision of Aunt Bluette swooping down from heaven to beat me with a switch. She’d raised me to never be hurtful. She used to say, “Teeny, there’s a fine line between telling the truth as you see it—the key phrase being as you see it—and being a judgmental smart-ass.”

  “Cooper and I aren’t enemies,” she said. “We’ll always be … close.”

  What the doodly hell was that supposed to mean? How close was close? I picked up a lavender sprig and sniffed. I was trying my damnedest not to take offense, but she was a little too direct for my taste. The sugar in me was melting, coming to a boil.

  “I’ve upset you, haven’t I?” she asked.

  “Nope.” I was lying through the gap in my front teeth. Prickly, bloodsucking thoughts were circling in my head. My hands shook as I put the shortbread into the oven.

  “God, I could use a drink,” she said, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead, her long, elegant fingers curling inward. “I tend to be a bit hyper, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “What about warm milk? Sometimes that’s real soothing.”

  “Why not?” She flashed a smile, but it didn’t touch her eyes.

  I found a copper saucepan, poured in milk, added a vanilla bean, and turned the flame to low. “I don’t have artificial sweetener,” I said. “Will sugar do?”

  I was stereotyping the “thin people never eat carbs” theory, but sugar was loaded with carbohydrates, and I didn’t want to fix something she wouldn’t like.

  “I’ve got Splenda.” She went to the hall and returned with her purse. When she unzipped it, I saw that it was filled with yellow packets. She plucked one out and handed it to me. “I have an odd habit of nicking sweetener.”

  “Nicking?”

  “Stealing. When I’m on digs, I don’t always stay in hotels. Sometimes I’m in a tent. I cook on butane—now there’s a challenge for you, Teeny. But if I need to sweeten my coffee, I can’t ring room service or find a minimarket.”

  “Miss Dora can’t use anything with sucralose in it.” I emptied a yellow packet into the milk. “It makes her swell up and itch.”

  I checked the pan. Bubbles rolled along the curved edge. I shut off the burner and fished out the vanilla bean. Steam curled as I poured the milk into two mugs. I thought of Arsenic and Old Lace and the aunts discussing the best way to disguise the smell of arsenic.

  For a tiny moment, I indulged in a wicked fantasy, but I pushed it aside. This had to stop. I might be jealous of Ava, but I would never harm her. Maybe this was how evil started. Maybe thoughts were bridges and when you crossed over one, you passed from safe to dangerous. And once you did that, there was no going back.

  thirty-eight

  I cut the warm shortbread into wedges and put it on a tray with the mugs. We settled in Uncle Elmer’s library. It was a cozy room, with butternut paneling and cherry antiques. Uncle Elmer’s porcelain bird collection was lined up on the mantel. Pink-and-green plaid curtains hung on the windows. Through the wavy bubbled glass, I saw the garden.

  I set the tray on the coffee table. Ava curled on the settee and reached for a shortbread wedge. I lifted a mug and sat down in a chair.

  “Delicious,” she said and reached for her mug.

  I repressed a smile, but I was tickled to pieces. I wasn’t looking for friendship through food, but I was looking for acceptance. I needed to know that when I cooked something, it hit the spot.

  She lowered her mug. “Teeny, you’re awfully pensive.”

  Pensive hadn’t been in my word-a-day calendar, so I just said what was on my mind. “I was just thinking of Bonaventure.”

  “Do your parents still live there?”

  “No.”

  “Are they still alive?”

  “My mother ran off when I was eight. She didn’t come back. I never knew my dad. My aunt raised me.”

  “You’re fatherless?” She took a sip of milk.

  I nodded.

  “Do you have an Electra complex?” she asked.

  I had a feeling she wasn’t referring to vacuum cleaners. But I wasn’t going to ask for an explanation.

  “Are you bitter about your mum?” Ava asked.

  “No, I love her. I always will. She was sick and confused. She did the best she could.”

  “You’re far more magnanimous than I would be. I’m still angry with Father. He ran off with the au pair. It was quite scandalous. I was only ten but I felt responsible—my own babysitter.” She stretched her legs. “Of all the women in the world, Cooper picks two with abandonment issues. It makes me wonder what happened in his childhood.”

  “He had a happy one,” I said. “His parents were good people. They’re still together.”

  “Yes, I know.” She dipped her cookie into the milk. “Mrs. O’Malley is my mother-in-law.”

  “Sorry, I misspoke.”

  “It’s quite all right. She likes me but she doesn’t know what to do with me.” Ava dropped the cookie into the milk. “I’m sure you’re wondering why Cooper and I broke up.”

  “It’s crossed my mind.”

  “He and I are quite opposite, if you haven’t noticed. He’s cautious. Mr. Straight-as-an-Arrow. His moral rectitude is beyond reproach. I’m a risk taker. He’s not.” She set down her mug. “Our problems reached an apex when I went caving in the Gilf al-Kebir—that’s in Egypt.”

  “I saw The English Pat
ient.” No matter how many times I watched that movie, I wanted Katharine to tell her husband that Almásy was more handsome and she was running off with him.

  “Then you know the desert is dangerous and beautiful.” She got up from the settee and walked to the window. “I went with a group. Fifteen in all. We hired guides and headed to Egypt. The Libyan border is dodgy. Lots of drug and gun trafficking. We were taken by Sudanese bandits.” She turned. “Cooper didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s just like him—he’s like Russian nesting dolls. Just when you think you’ve opened the last egg, there’s another and another.”

  She pulled her hair to one side and held it up like a paintbrush. “The kidnappers held our group for ten days. Our respective governments were asked for fifteen million in ransom. We weren’t treated poorly. But it was harrowing, especially when the Egyptians sent in commandos and helicopters. The kidnappers were shot. We were taken to a hospital in Cairo. No harm done. Or so I’d thought.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ava.” I put my hand on my chest.

  “Cooper flew to Egypt, of course. He demanded I give up my career, or at least confine myself to digs in Williamsburg. That’s just too tame.” She walked back to the settee and perched on the edge. “Here’s the tricky bit. Cooper has led a sheltered life. Nothing truly awful has ever happened to him. Ever. He was more horrified by the kidnapping than I was. We had a huge row. He went back to Charleston. I went to Sudan. And he filed for divorce.”

  My hand shook as I lifted my mug and watched her over the rim. I’d always felt Coop hadn’t told me the full story of their breakup. I was starting to understand why.

  “I came back to Charleston, back to Cooper,” she said. “I thought we’d sort things out, the way we’d always done. Our house at Seabrook had been rented to a family of four. Cooper had moved to Isle of Palms—and he’d taken T-Bone with him. I rented a house on Sullivan’s Island. One of his friends mailed me divorce papers. I tore them up, mailed the bits to Cooper, and flew back to Sudan. I had a long while to think. At night, with no distractions, I ached for Cooper. I wanted him back. I abandoned the dig and came back to Sullivan’s Island, determined to try one more time. But then I saw you and Cooper at the market.”