by Brown, Duffy
“What happened to make Lolly hate Seymour so much?” I asked as Cazy started up again.
“Mostly it was the way he treated me at the savings and loan.” Cazy’s voice was strained, and he had a death grip on the steering wheel. “Always making demands on me, he was.”
The trolley picked up speed. “Belittling me in front of other employees,” Cazy growled, the trolley rumbling faster and faster still. “Saying I was old and no one would ever hire me.” The trolley took the next turn on two wheels, sliding me right out of my seat and sending pedestrians in a crosswalk diving for the sidewalk. “Telling me I didn’t know what I was doing and—”
“Holy Toledo, slow down!”
Cazy jammed on the brakes, the trolley stopping inches from a phone pole.
“Sorry.” Cazy flopped back in his seat and puffed out a lungful of air. “Talking about Seymour gets me a little riled up is all. Now where can I drop you?”
I scrambled down the trolley steps. “Thanks for the lift.” I gave Cazy a long look. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem a bit upset. Maybe you shouldn’t be driving.”
Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a brown prescription bottle and shook two blue pills in his palm. He tossed them in his mouth, closed his eyes, and relaxed. “Om shanti, shanti, shanti,” Cazy chanted in a calm voice. He pried open one eye. “Means ‘peace prevail everywhere.’ I go to Amy’s House of Yoga over there on Whittaker twice a week. I’m getting really good at inverted turtle.”
“Amen.” I made the sign of the cross.
“The little blue pills are pure magic.” Cazy gave me a friendly grin, and I watched the trolley amble on down the street.
Sweet Jesus in heaven, the whole freaking city was medicated! Cazy was on the blue-pill regimen, Dozer had high blood pressure and was taking stuff for that, and the way Marigold flipped out at the Fox my guess was she needed to up her dose of Prozac. Tomorrow I’d find out more on Marigold. Tonight, as much as I didn’t want to revisit the Cemetery, I figured it was a good place to get the skinny on Dozer above and beyond his medical history. Besides, I’d already had my run-in with Boone, so I doubted if he’d be there to get in my way.
I didn’t know what Dozer looked like but guessed someone at the Cemetery would. Mercedes seemed to think he had a real problem with Scummy underbidding him on projects, and with the construction business taking it on the chin these days Dozer might be in a world of financial hurt and have Scummy to thank for it. Just how much he wanted to thank him was the question. Funerals might get people talking but so did sitting at a bar with a few longnecks. The trick was to steer clear of Popeye and be inconspicuous. Hey, I could be inconspicuous. I figured I’d used up all my conspicuous for a while.
The Cemetery was packed and loud, the banner declaring Archie Lee winner still on display along with “Archie Lee Wins” posters on the walls in case someone didn’t get the message. I spotted Big Joey with Earlene—who would have thought?—and some guys I knew from high school. The Cemetery was Savannah’s melting pot of all sorts of beer-loving people, especially with Archie Lee in the limelight as the city’s new and future alderman.
I found six inches of open space at the far end of the bar. Somebody put a mug of beer in my hand as Archie Lee raised his, everyone following suit. “To the little guy in city hall,” Archie Lee bellowed. “This one’s for us.”
Everyone cheered, added congratulations of their own, and downed their brews. I asked the twentysomething guy sitting next to me if he’d seen Dozer here tonight, that we were supposed to meet up.
He gave me a duh look and pointed to a dude the size of a bulldozer in an Atlanta Braves ball cap standing in the back. I took my beer and elbowed my way in that direction, trying to think of an opening line that was idle conversation, basic chitchat. I needed information but needed to be subtle about it. Something like On a scale of one to ten how much did you want to kill off Seymour? was definitely out.
I sidestepped the guy in the leather jacket with a snarling Georgia Bulldog on the back and a girl in a brown corduroy skirt that would sell in no time at the Fox. “Great party,” I said to Dozer, holding up my glass in salute.
“You bet, sugar,” Dozer slurred. He took a swig from his longneck and wrapped his big arm around me, pulling me close to his side. He smelled of beer and cigarette smoke, another candidate for Eternal Slumber.
“Guess you didn’t like Seymour much?” I prodded.
“Seymour thought he was so darn smart.” Dozer leaned on me for support. “Wheeling and dealing to get his way all the time. You know what?”
“What?”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, and sometimes He needs a little help from his friends, and I got lots of friends here. Archie Lee’s a real good friend, a bartender who listens to everyone’s troubles, and we all got troubles, now don’t we?” Dozer clicked his beer to mine. “I figured out what Seymour was up to all by myself.”
Dozer laughed deep in his barrel chest, pulling me closer still. I eased out from under the crushing weight of Dozer’s arm and came face to chest with a white T-shirt splashed with red barbecue sauce. My eyes traveled up to shoulders—the guy didn’t have a neck—and I recognized the face.
“Get out of here,” Popeye bellowed at me, the bar getting instantly quite.
“Hey, buddy,” Dozer cajoled, looking at Popeye. “Don’t you be talking that way to my friend here.” Dozer snagged my arm and yanked me back to his side. “She’s a cute little addition to the place, don’t you think?”
“This here ain’t no friend,” Popeye sneered. “This here is trouble, Summerside trouble, the worst kind. You don’t want nothing to do with her, man.” Popeye hoisted me up by my other arm, Dozer not letting go of my neck. I couldn’t breathe, the room swimming in front of me. I swore if I ever found the real killer, I’d strangle him or her with my own two hands.
I dropped my beer and shoved at Dozer, gulping in mouthfuls of air. Popeye didn’t give a hoot about my near-death experience and hauled me toward the back hall and the rear door I was getting to know all too well.
“Getting tossed out of here once wasn’t enough for you?” Popeye shoved me into the alley again. I stumbled, tripped, and landed on my backside, jarring every bone in my body.
“Is this any way to treat a lady?”
“Ladies don’t come around here accusing my brother of murder.”
“For your information I was here tonight to accuse someone else of murder.”
“Dozer?”
“Maybe.” Open mouth, insert foot.
“I’ll be sure to let him know.” Popeye slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame, the party inside picking up where it left off. So much for me being inconspicuous.
“Honey, are you all right down there?” A woman gazed at me, the alley light catching in her gray hair. She juggled two big white boxes with Cuisine by Rachelle stenciled in blue on the sides. One of the boxes started to slip, and I caught it before it hit the ground.
“Why thank you kindly for that.” She nodded at the boxes. “I’m the Rachelle on this here box, Rachelle Lerner, and I’d hate to walk inside with a banged-up delivery. Archie Lee’s a good customer, and I aim to keep him happy as best I can. I need the business.” She cut her eyes to the door. “Guess you two don’t get along so well?”
“I criticized his boiled peanuts.” I got to my feet and helped Rachelle adjust the boxes.
“He’s mighty proud of those peanuts. Concocted the recipe himself from what I hear. He’s serving up shrimp po’boys tonight with special sauce in honor of being the new alderman. I got the buns right here and two more boxes waiting out in the van. He sure is tickled about winning this here election.”
“Do you need some help?”
“I can manage on my own. Been doing a lot of managing these days. Used to be my Parnell made the deliveries for me. ’Course that was before a no-good, rotten judge sent my baby boy to prison. So he sold a few drugs; everyone’s on something th
ese days. I hope that Summerside judge rots in prison herself now, I truly do.” Rachelle drew up close. “She’s the one they’re accusing of knocking off Seymour.”
“No,” I said on a gasp. The gasp was because I realized the woman was the same one who had stood beside me at Eternal Slumber, happy as a clam Scummy was history.
“Yes indeed, and it’s just what that woman deserves if you ask me. Someone sure fixed her little old red wagon, now didn’t they?”
Fixed her wagon? “You don’t think the judge really killed Seymour?”
Rachelle gave a who-cares shrug. “She’s getting accused of it, and that’s what matters. Fact is, a lot of folks didn’t like Kip Seymour, and I’m right at the top of that list. Now if you could hold that there door open for me, I’d be mighty grateful for the assistance.”
Rachelle wobbled inside with the teetering boxes, and I headed for home, the long walk giving me a chance to pick up a to-go meatloaf sandwich with extra provolone from Parker’s deli and gas station, and time to think about the evening. I licked a glob of cheese from my thumb and decided Rachelle had a bad case of what Mamma often referred to as the Baby Jesus syndrome, meaning my child can do no wrong.
But was Rachelle just plain old mad at Mamma for sending her darling Parnell off to jail, or was she mad enough to do something sinister about it, like frame Mamma for murder? Why knock off Scummy in the process? What was her gripe with him? She said there was a list of people wanting Scummy dead and she was on it.
What did Dozer mean by Scummy wheeling and dealing? What was he into? By the time I got to Cherry House, I was full and frustrated. I had a lot more questions than answers, and my night of keeping on the down-low hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. I fed BW a chunk of meatloaf sandwich and the last hot dog in the fridge. I promised him I’d go to the store on the morrow for a hot dog refill if he’d stop with the poor pitiful neglected pup look. I let him outside for a nightly round of sniff-and-sprinkle, and Auntie KiKi waltzed her way across the grass, martini glass in hand.
“Heard you had quite a time over there at the Cemetery and figured you might need this.”
“Twitter?”
“And Facebook. The pictures are suitable for framing. Cher says, ‘Until you’re ready to look foolish, you’ll never have the possibility of being great.’ Honey, after tonight I think you’re gearing up for the presidency.”
We both sat down on the porch, and I took a sip of martini. The cool sliding down my throat and alcohol buzzing in my bloodstream took some of the sting out of the fact that in one single night my not-so-great sleuthing skills made top billing on two social networks. “Did Uncle Putter suspect you were part of the Eternal Slumber fiasco?”
“The seniors had a pepperoni-pizza-and-cheesy-breadstick delivery from Vinnie Van GoGo’s right there in the middle of his healthy heart talk. He was so spitting mad when he got home that nothing else mattered.”
“God bless Vinnie, double cheese, and speedy delivery.” We both made the sign of the cross and then KiKi dropped a pink sparkly pin in my lap.
“Holy cow, you got it? I forgot all about this being tucked under Scummy’s shoulder.”
KiKi fluffed her hair and flashed a superior auntie smile. “I’m not only smart and mighty good-looking; I’m sneaky as all get out, too.”
I picked up the poodle, turning it in my hand, the faint streetlight reflecting off the pink rhinestones. “I know this pin. One of the cute young chickie volunteers at Scummy’s campaign headquarters wore it on a white sweater when we were there. You think Scummy was diddling with the help and the pin was a little present?”
KiKi made a sour face and shuddered. “Sweet mother in heaven, he’s old enough to be her daddy. Then again women like men with power, and men like . . . well we know full well what men like.”
Kiki plucked the skewered olives from my drink, handed them to me, and took the martini. Some days were like that, I realized. Just when you really needed the martini, you wound up with the toothpick.
“You know,” KiKi said, her brow creased in deep thought. “Maybe Money-Honey found the pin too and realized what was going on with hubby and the volunteers. That’s why she faked the running mascara and looking all upset at the funeral. Deep down she was glad he was dead and gone. But Money-Honey being ticked off at her dead husband doesn’t get us any closer to finding who killed him. Right now I’d say Archie Lee is the obvious choice since he gained the most, and then there’s that Dozer guy that Mercedes told us about.”
“I met a caterer who has it in for Mamma and didn’t like Scummy, and then there’s Marigold and Butler on the kill-Scummy list. I don’t know what’s going on there, but something sure is. Cazy Ledbetter and Lolly hated Seymour, and if you open up an account at the savings and loan where Cazy worked, we could ask around and see what the employees have to say. I think the savings and loan is giving away toasters. Everybody can use a toaster.”
“I already have a toaster.” KiKi stood and finished off the last gulp of martini. “Besides, tomorrow morning Putter’s in a golf tournament over there on Hilton Head Island. I’m driving the golf cart for luck, and you, my little sweet pea, have a dance lesson with a bunch of juvenile delinquents. Cazy, the savings and loan, and the toaster are just going to have to wait their turn.”
• • •
WAS I REALLY THIS OBNOXIOUS AS A TEENAGER, I wondered while standing in KiKi’s parlor staring at ten kids who wanted to be here as much as I did. “You need to turn off the phones and pay attention,” I said for the third time.
“What if something happens?” Kelly Ann Randolph asked with her eyes still fixed on the screen.
“It’s Saturday morning in Savannah, honey. Nothing’s happening.”
“You mean it’s not like last night when you got thrown out of that bar?” Linton Parish gave me an arrogant look. All the other little darlings of notable Savannah families snickered, making me wonder if Uncle Putter still kept that Smith and Wesson in the hall closet.
I heaved a sigh. I had promised KiKi I’d teach her class, and I’d do it if it killed me . . . or them. Right now it was a toss-up. I selected an Adam Levine song from KiKi’s iPod. The guy sang like no other and was delicious enough to make any woman forget her troubles, and I had ten big ones.
“Take your partner like this,” I said, claiming Linton Parish as my guinea pig. Give me a hard time, and you pay for it. Linton was my height, rail thin, and considered himself God’s gift to Savannah thanks to his parents who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was and, given half a chance, informed everyone else in the city of that fact.
The dear boy’s left clammy hand took my right one, his right hand went to the small of my back, then it slid right down to my butt. He grinned and gave a squeeze. After last night I didn’t think my life could sink any lower, yet here I was, at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning being groped by a pimply faced teenager with hot chocolate breath.
A large hand suddenly closed around Linton’s scrawny neck. “I don’t think so, kid,” came Boone’s deep voice.
Linton’s eyes nearly popped right out of their sockets, and Boone steered him over to Kelly Ann. “Ditch your phones. Get your partners. Move it!”
Immediately, ten reprobates lined up, and Boone was my partner, his hand firm at my back, his right hand holding mine.
“Now dance,” Boone ordered, and we all did, “One More Night” playing in the background.
“Why are you here?” was all I could manage, my brain trying to compute what was going on. Boone and I battling it out I understood as business as usual. The possibility of Boone and me dancing in Auntie KiKi’s parlor had never crossed my mind.
He gave me a lopsided grin, a smug glint in his eyes. “After last night’s escapades at Archie Lee’s and you winding up as gossip fodder yet again, your ass belongs to me, Blondie, not some snot-nosed kid. Any leads out there on Seymour’s murder are dead ends thanks to you, and lighten up a little, you’re like a Mac truck out here
.”
Boone had on faded black jeans molded to a nice package in front and the state’s best buns in back. His mussed blue T-shirt felt soft under my left hand. He was unshaven, his dark chin close to my cheek, a lingering woodsy scent of soap and shampoo drifting my way. A hint of danger hummed under the surface as always with Boone, even when dancing. There was never a doubt as to who led whom, and Boone was good, really good. The kids sucked.
“Pay attention,” he ordered again. All eyes focused on us gliding around the room, Boone throwing in a little swing. He gave me a wise-guy smile and held me a little tighter, not rough tighter, just . . . tighter.
I missed a step, our hips touching, thighs brushing. His smile faded, and Boone missed the next step, his eyes now black as midnight.
“How’d you learn to dance?” I asked, needing to say something, anything, to get my mind off . . . dancing.
“Either that or off to juvie.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Do I dance like I’m kidding?”
“No.” I swallowed. “You don’t dance like you’re kidding at all.” My voice was barely a whisper. It was suddenly hard to breathe. The song drifted off, the last beat dying before Boone took a step away. His hand fell from my waist, the absence unsettling.
“You’re . . . a good dancer,” he said, his voice low, ragged. “I didn’t expect . . . this.” Then Walker Boone turned around and walked out the door.
Chapter Eight
A LITTLE before ten I finished the dance lesson, the kids more angel than devil with the possibility of Boone returning at any moment, and if he had, I probably would have peed my pants.
My heart had been doing the slow-thud-and-flip-flop thing since he had walked out the door forty-five minutes ago. I hadn’t been able to concentrate for beans. What was wrong with me? It was a simple foxtrot, not even a rumba. It was Walker Boone for heaven’s sake, the bane of my existence through divorce hell and beyond.