by Brown, Duffy
“I told that detective I was out for a walk looking for my cat,” KiKi said, a bit of my hearing returning. She held out her arms. “I sure look the part, don’t you think? Now where is my little precious?”
I didn’t think KiKi was referring to me, so I dumped Hellion in her purse and shook my jacket to dislodge any cat vermin lurking inside. I took BW’s leash, and the four of us headed off. The street was congested with onlookers, and more were coming by the minute, all of them far more interested in a good old house explosion than two grungy women walking a dog and a meowing purse.
Twenty minutes later I had KiKi settled in her favorite chair with a martini and Hellion sequestered in the garage with a blanket, water in a china bowl, and fried chicken deboned and diced into bite-size pieces. Saving KiKi had perks. I promised KiKi we’d pack the little bundle of joy off to the vet tomorrow to get rid of the ticks and fleas before granting permanent inside residency.
“How are you going to explain this cat to Uncle Putter?” I asked KiKi before heading out the door to reclaim the Beemer.
KiKi took a contemplative sip of martini and munched an Oreo, the perfect combination to chase away the woes of the day. “The way this here house operates is that Putter lives in the world of Golf Digest, where are my clubs, when’s dinner, and I have surgery at ten. With a little luck he’ll think we’ve had a cat all along. It’s either that, or I’ll tell him he’s the one who brought the cat home and it must have slipped his mind.”
“Think it’ll work?”
“It’s how I got the Gucci.” She nibbled her bottom lip and gave me a hard look. “Honey, when you pick up the car, it might be a right fine idea to avoid the cops; you sort of look like a witness to the occurrence. They could be wondering why you were there.”
“The clothes are a dead giveaway, huh?”
“That and you don’t have eyebrows.”
BW and I headed off to get the car. I burrowed into my shredded jacket wondering if I could duct tape the thing back together. I was a great believer in the wonders of duct tape. The closer we got to Blair Street, the slower BW walked. He came to a dead standstill right in the middle of the sidewalk, staring straight ahead at the bank of strobe lights. “Bad memories? I’m with you on that one.”
More than likely the Beemer was still hemmed in by emergency equipment, blown-up houses being a big deal and all. As much as I wanted to get KiKi’s nice car back in her driveway tonight, it wasn’t going to happen right now. Instead of heading for home, my guilty conscience got the best of me, and I headed in the other direction and turned onto East Charlton. BW perked right up, his head held higher now and tail wagging.
This was one of our favorite walks, with live oaks so big they formed a canopy of green across the entire street and roots so strong and old they pushed up brick sidewalks making them uneven, memorable, Savannah. The houses here dated back to the 1850s and weren’t just places to live, they were members of the family, the guardians keeping those inside safe and warm and protected, and they had done it oh so beautifully for all these many years.
We passed Troup Square, and BW got his usual drink from the doggie fountain there, then Lafayette Square and Madison Square with the illuminated statue of Sergeant William Jasper, noted soldier of the Siege of Savannah right in the middle. The trivia I knew as a Southern history major was frightening. Across the street stood the home of Walker Boone, and BW pulled me in that direction with all his might.
Since Boone could have gotten turned into pixie dust tonight because of me, I owed him an explanation. Besides, if I didn’t come to him now, he’d come to me tomorrow, and I didn’t want that hanging over my head all night. There was also the niggling fact that Boone didn’t look so good when talking to the police, and his jumping on top of me had a lot to do with saving me from a wall of fire and nothing to do with his hormones.
Boone’s house was a pristine Federalist that did Savannah proud but was pretty much unfurnished just like Mercedes said. I had made a beer run to his fridge once and got a firsthand look. I took the steps to the raised entrance and rapped the brass pineapple doorknocker, the knocker of all Southern homes worth two hoots. No answer. I tried again with the same result.
I started to leave, tugged on the leash for BW to come along, but he didn’t budge. Poor doggie was fast asleep, sprawled out across Boone’s welcome mat, snoring like an oncoming freight train. Not having the heart to get him up after the night from the damned, I sat on the porch beside him, gazing across to the lovely lit square. I snuggled up close to keep warm, tension fading away, a bit of peace at last.
“Drink this.”
I was jostled awake, a cup of something hot and steamy shoved into my hand.
“Maybe it’ll make your eyebrows grow back.”
I blinked a few times, trying to figure out where the heck I was. “KiKi?”
“Not exactly,” Boone said, dropping down beside me. He opened a white pastry bag, pulled out a sprinkle doughnut, tore off a piece, my mouth watering in anticipation, and fed it to BW.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “You look like something the cat dragged in.” He gave a sniff. “And you smell like it, too.”
I grabbed a handful of jacket and took a whiff. Maybe Febreze and duct tape. I sipped some coffee to get my brain working and clear away the fog. “I didn’t have anything to do with that house blowing up. I think there might have been a gas leak inside.”
“Along with a hefty dousing of gasoline.”
I stopped the coffee halfway to my mouth. “This was on purpose?”
“Neighbors said there was a light on inside the house. Remove the glass from the bulb, turn on the gas, and the exposed filament is the perfect igniter.”
Boone pulled another doughnut from the bag and took a big bite. “What did you find at Dozer’s that connects to the house on Blair?” he asked around the crumbs. “You were at both places when you had no business being at either, and I don’t believe in coincidence.”
Boone had a cut across his forehead, and both hands were blistered and scraped raw. I didn’t know what part was from just being near the blast and what part was from that blazing wall and Boone being between it and me. Either way he was at that house because KiKi and I were there. I owed him. I hated when that happened. “How about I buy you a new jacket and we call the night even.”
“How about you tell me why I almost got blown to hell and back.”
“What if I bake you a cake?”
“I’ve already had one near-death experience.” The little lines at Boone’s eyes crinkled with a laugh, and I socked his arm. Love didn’t make the world go round, guilt did.
“I’m not all that sure what’s going on,” I said to Boone.
“But you have a hunch.”
“Yeah, I have a hunch.” I settled back against the door and grabbed a chunk of doughnut. I took a bite, trying to put the pieces together. “Seymour was underbidding Dozer on contracts, and yet Seymour lived large, handing in low bids and still making money. The question is how, and I think Dozer wondered the same thing. In Dozer’s office I found newspaper clippings of buildings with structural problems all from Seymour projects. Then today Pillsbury came to the Fox with Chantilly and said something about a friend who repaired a house with bad wood he bought from Butler Haber and the house falling apart. That makes two building problems in two days. I don’t believe in coincidence either.”
Boone licked icing and sprinkles off his thumb, his forehead furrowed in thought. “And Seymour’s dead, and now this house is suddenly blasted off the face of the earth. Nothing’s going to put that house back together, and dead men don’t talk. Another two for two. Someone’s trying real hard to hide something.”
I split a piece of doughnut with BW. “Dozer had a picture of lumber with the Haber Lumber stamp tucked in with the newspaper clippings. My guess is Haber was selling inferior lumber to Seymour at cheap prices so he could turn in low bids. Haber marked it good grade, but it wasn’t. Now that t
hings are falling apart, Seymour must have suspected what Haber did.”
“Haber kills Seymour to keep him quiet. Somehow Pillsbury’s bro got the bad lumber by mistake to make the repairs on the house, so Haber had to get rid of the evidence. With Seymour’s murder stirring things up, Haber blew the house.”
Boone finished off his coffee as I stared at him bug-eyed. “You know about this?”
“You’re not the only one trying to find the killer, remember? Seymour made enemies, and these are two super-size ones. Dozer knocked off Seymour because Seymour ruined his business, or maybe Haber did the deed because Seymour was on to him.”
I set down my cup. “The thing is, I can’t see either Dozer or Haber using poison. They’d arrange for a building accident. Seymour gets run over by a backhoe, squashed by a load of lumber if they were into irony. Construction is loaded with accidents waiting to happen.”
Boone and I both eyed the last doughnut sitting alone in the bag, a devilish half smile on Boone’s face. “About my jacket . . .”
I always came out on the short end of guilt.
“The thing about the poison,” Boone said after devouring the last sprinkle, “is that it dumps the blame on your mom. A construction accident makes Dozer and Haber look a lot guiltier.” Boone leaned back against his door, looking content till he cut his eyes my way. “Who else you got?”
“Who else you got?”
“I don’t have anything firmed up yet.”
“You expect me to believe that? You’re not telling me because you want me out of the picture. I sit here and spill my guts about Dozer and Haber maybe killing Seymour, and you give me nothing?”
“Hey, I chipped in coffee and doughnuts. You spilled your guts because you were feeling guilty. Don’t you feel better now?”
“No.” Yes. “Are . . . are you okay? You were sort of limping.” I touched the cut on his head, my fingers sticky with dried blood. I suddenly felt sick, and it had nothing to do with too many carbs and too much sugar in my stomach. “Maybe you should go to the hospital and have someone take a look.”
“I’m not the one without eyebrows.”
I had to say the next words or I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. “Thank you.”
“For . . . ?”
Oh for crying in a bucket! “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you? The falling wall, the fire, flames cooking us alive, you jumping on top of me.” A blush inched up my neck at the last part.
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” A spark of devilment lit Boone’s eyes. He was messing with me, and we both knew it.
“I’m out of here,” I said and levered myself off the porch floor.
Boone didn’t budge. “I can drive you.”
“I have to get KiKi’s car, and you dropping me off with the cops still around will raise eyebrows.”
“But not yours.” Boon stood. He fiddled with a strand of my hair for a beat. “I know you’re trying to save your mom and nothing I can do is going to stop you, but people don’t blow up houses because they’re bored on a Sunday night with nothing else to do. You get in the killer’s way, and he’ll get rid of you just like the house and Seymour.”
He fastened my jacket, two buttons falling off in his hand. He stuck them in his pocket. “Got another coat?”
“I like this one. It has memories.”
“Some better than others. Watch your back, Reagan.”
I headed for Blair. Boone never called me Reagan, Blondie maybe and sometimes shop girl if he really wanted to tick me off, but not Reagan. I glanced over my shoulder, the night feeling a little spooky. I walked faster. Maybe I should scrape some money together for a phone, except there was that water bill sitting on the kitchen counter and the soon-to-arrive heating bills.
BW and I rounded the corner onto Blair, rivulets of dirty water snaking down the street, the acrid smell of soaked wood saturating the air. Smoke curled from the pile of dank rubble. A fire truck, two police cruisers, and a few pockets of kibitzers kept watch. I charged up the Beemer, and BW and I headed for home.
When I pulled into KiKi’s drive, the lights were off in her kitchen, meaning KiKi was in for the night. I beeped the car locked and took the keys with me for KiKi to pick up tomorrow. I checked on Hellion, aimed my flashlight through the garage windowpane, capturing him snuggled up all cute and sweet on his blanket. He yawned, pried open one eye, flipped me the bird, then went back to sleep. A perfect ending to a perfect day.
Clouds made for a moonless night, the street midnight quiet, the dining room light in Cherry House shining through the bay window out onto the porch, the silhouette of a man suddenly right smack in front of me. He smelled of beer and cigarettes, and he threw a hotdog wrapper at my feet.
“Stay out of my business if you know what’s good for you.” Dozer gave me a hard shove, sending me stumbling back against the porch railing, rattling the whole structure. BW in true BW fashion went after the hotdog wrapper.
Was I scared? Heck yeah, but I was also fed up with mean cats, nearly getting blown to smithereens, ugly displays in my very own shop, my favorite jacket ruined, one measly doughnut, and all of it getting me absolutely nowhere. “So,” I said, angry and tired winning out over chicken. “Why’d you kill Seymour? Revenge? Fed up with losing contracts? Bored?”
Dozer scoffed. “Shows how little you know about anything. I didn’t kill Seymour, and if you come on my property again, you’ll be pushing up daisies with that bastard out at Bonaventure Cemetery, and I can dance on both your graves.”
“Honey Seymour’s taking over Seymour Construction, and it’s going to be business as usual. That’s what she told Butler Haber.”
An evil smile played at Dozer’s lips. “I can keep Honey Seymour in line and Haber, too.”
“By telling everyone Seymour knew about the lumber switch all along? No one will believe it. Seymour wouldn’t do something so stupid that would have his construction projects falling apart in a few years.”
“All I have to do is plant the seed that Seymour was cutting corners. That along with the building problems cropping up in the papers these days and Seymour Construction takes a tumble.”
Before I knew what was happening, Dozer grabbed my arms, lifting me off the porch. My bulging eyes now level with his raging with anger, his hot beer breath on my face. “I’m winning the next contract that comes out and the one after that and the one after that. Honey Seymour is not getting in my way if she knows what’s good for her and that company she’s running, because I’ll take her down. Butler Haber is giving me the deal of a lifetime on lumber, good lumber. I’m going to make a killing this time, and you’re going to keep your big mouth shut.” He shook me like a ragdoll. “Got it, sweet cakes?”
Dozer let me go, and I slid onto the porch, my back against the railings. He stormed down the steps and headed for his red pickup, hit the gas, and roared down the street, the noise deafening in the dead quiet.
I sat on the floor, my legs rubbery and my heart thudding so hard it jarred my head. BW contentedly licked the hot dog wrapper.
Dozer was clearly over the edge. After years of getting dumped on he finally had the upper hand and loved it. The problem was I knew why Dozer Delany was sitting in the catbird seat, and that made me a big, fat walking liability to him and Butler Haber not to mention Archie Lee and Popeye. When I made enemies, I did it big.
I finally wobbled inside and locked the door behind me. I wedged a chair I got on consignment under the kitchen doorknob like they do in the movies. I bunched the “Elect Gloria Summerside” signs around the chair in case anyone got through; the racket of them hitting the floor would act like a cheap alarm system. I flipped on every light in the house, making the place look like High Mass at St. John’s. I picked up the baseball bat Hollis forgot to pack when he moved out. BW moseyed upstairs to take advantage of the bed all to himself, and I sat on the steps keeping watch over my humble abode.
I didn’t think Dozer would come back tonight, but the
re was Butler Haber to consider, and by now he knew I was nosing around the house on Blair. Boone was right in that this was about more than winning an election, and the Summerside girls were right in the thick of it.
• • •
A BANGING ON THE FRONT DOOR JARRED ME AWAKE, sunlight streaming in through the bay window. I peeled myself off the steps, my neck stiff and pains in my knees and back. I opened the door to, “What in heaven’s name is going on over here? Your back door is wedged shut tighter than a lid on a honey jar and . . . Sweet Jesus in heaven and Lord have mercy. You look worse than when you left my house last night, and frankly I didn’t think that was possible. And you’re still in the same clothes, what’s left of them. What’s with the bat?”
KiKi stepped inside. “And you’ve got all the lights blazing. At this rate Georgia Power is going to start sending you flowers.”
“Have you checked Twitter this morning?”
“Good Lord, now what?”
Chapter Twelve
“I’VE been thinking,” I said to Auntie KiKi, both of us standing in the hall by the checkout door. “Maybe you should visit Uncle Putter at that fancy golf course in Augusta. You could do a spa getaway. Just think of it: sea wraps, mud baths, Klaus the massage guy. Bet Klaus is really yummy. Bet he has hands like velvet.”
“You really think I’d run off to a spa while my sister and niece are neck-deep in doo-doo? What kind of Southern woman would do such a thing? Besides, Fanny Harper says there’s nothing at those spa places besides steamed fish, celery and carrot sticks, and grass tea. Have you ever had grass tea? She says it tastes like someone cut their lawn and threw it in water, and they charge you fifteen dollars a cup for the stuff. If I’m paying fifteen dollars for a drink, it’s going to have martini somewhere in the title.”
KiKi sat at the dining room table and pulled me down in the chair next to hers. She shoved the scarf, purse, and jewelry display out of the way then folded her hands together all prim and proper and leaned close like she meant business. “Okay, spill it.”