Dead Man Walker (2 page)

The best way to get Mercedes off the hook was to put someone else on. Our resident dead guy had ticked people off for as long as I could remember and had gone out of his way to double-cross me a time or three or maybe four. There might be something in his office that would lead me to his latest victim, someone who might have wanted him permanently gone.

Late-morning sunlight sliced through the arched windows in Conway's office, the rays falling across the mahogany desk that sat in the same place it had for twenty years. Not that I'd been in the house by invitation before; I'd snooped. Teenage stuff mostly, just to see what all the talk of the big bad man in town was about.

The same blue Tiffany lamp with yellow flowers and birds occupied the left corner of the room, the same Oriental rug and maroon leather desk chair. Bookshelves lined the walls, the massive gilded mirror hung over the fireplace. The only difference now was that KiKi Vanderpool, local dance teacher and Reagan's martini-swilling auntie, was hunched over an antique cherry loveseat tossing pillows and cushions to the floor and muttering expletives that Southern Bellas saved for the privacy of their own home . . . or maybe a cheating husband caught with his pants down at an inappropriate time.

“Lose something, Mrs. Vanderpool?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

KiKi spun around, hand to heart. “Walker Boone, you scallywag, you scared the beejeebers out of me,” she stage-whispered. “I'd do a proper swoon right here to fit the occasion if I wasn't so pressed for time. What brings you to the devil's den?”

“Mercedes is my housekeeper and happens to be in the cops' crosshairs over this unfortunate occurrence so I thought I'd look around to see if Conway ticked someone off lately.”

“Doubt if you'll have to look far and, while you're at it, keep an eye out for a gold necklace with a jade heart.” KiKi parked herself down on the loveseat, shoving her hands deep into the upholstery. “Angie Gilbert, my canasta partner and Doc Wilson's nurse, paid Conway a visit last night to give him his B
12
shot to rev up his heart, among other things, if you get my drift. Seems she went and lost her necklace in the throws of sublime ecstasy and if her Johnny Ray gets wind of that particular ecstasy I'm going to be looking for a new partner.” KiKi eyed the desk. “You can start looking there.”

“For the necklace?”

“According to Angie, Olde Harbor Inn business wasn't the only thing a slipping and a sliding across that polished mahogany surface.”

Now there was a visual I could have lived without. I opened the top desk drawer to black pens, yellow legal pads, blue Post-its, and four tins of cinnamon Altoids. Footsteps and voices sounded in the hallway, and I snatched KiKi's hand, both of us scooting down behind the desk. “Busy as a stump full of ants around here,” KiKi grumbled, the footsteps continuing on by.

“There're too many cops hanging around. You'll have to save Angie another day.”

“Or as luck would have it, maybe not,” KiKi whispered. She flashed me a sly grin and pulled the necklace from under the desk along with two letters that had probably landed there by way of the slipping and sliding. KiKi dropped the necklace into her pocket then read the papers.

“Looks like we got a bill for a case of Woodford Double Oaked Bourbon and a letter from the Plantation Club signed by none other than Vice President Mason Dixon, griping that President Conway went and missed the last two meetings.”

“Guess being a no-show's a big deal when you're the grand pooh-bah of the joint.”

“And if Mister VP is gunning for the P position,” KiKi whispered back. KiKi slid the papers back under the desk as I glanced around the edge to check for more visitors. I helped KiKi up, we tossed the cushions back on the loveseat, and I motioned for her to follow me.

Scanning the hallway I led KiKi across it and into the white-and-blue kitchen. I snagged two poppy seed muffins off the counter since I'd missed breakfast, then we headed out the back door, across the stone patio, and into the garden. Cops came up the brick sidewalk stringing out “Do Not Cross” yellow police crime scene tape, so we headed for the stand of magnolias at the far end next to the rose garden. Taking the alley lined with pink and white azaleas, we came out by the wrought iron fence at Colonial Park Cemetery and a band of tourists hearing how the rotten Yankees switched all the tombstones during that unfortunate Northern aggression.

“We're clear,” I said to KiKi as we toasted our success with the muffins and I picked a magnolia leaf out of her curly red hair. “Tell me, Mrs. Vanderpool,” I said around a mouthful of muffin. “Does your husband know you're tripping through dead people's houses while he's off curing the sick?”

KiKi took a bite and brushed crumbs off her green blouse. “That man's world revolves around surgery at ten and tee-off time at three. We all don't call him Doc Putter for nothing, now do we.”

“That he carries a nine iron every place he goes might have something to do with it.”

“There is that. Let me know if I can help with Mercedes,” KiKi offered. “She's my friend, too. She colors my hair every week and I give her dance lessons. You should see her rumba. Nearly gave Melvin Pettigrew one of my Swingin' Seniors a heart attack right there on the spot last Thursday. Had to call in 911 and everything.”

“Any way you can keep Reagan out of this? She starts snooping around and everyone clams up and dives for cover. Never seen anyone stir things up the way she does.”

“I said ‘help,' dear, not ‘perform a blooming miracle.' It's like Cher says, ‘somebody's got to pay for the frog and dancing fairies,' and in this case its Reagan paying for a car, Lord have mercy on us all. Just between you and me I think the girl got her driver's license from the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.”

From what I knew about KiKi and her Beemer that was pretty much the pot calling the kettle black, but I knew when to keep my mouth shut and this was definitely one of those times. Ms. KiKi pointed back to the Adkins house and popped the last of her muffin in her mouth. “Mind telling me just how you knew where the kitchen was in that place?”

“Good instincts.”

“I was born at night, dear, but I wasn't born last night. For such a slick lawyer at times you're a mighty bad liar, Walker Boone.” KiKi sashayed off, and no one sashayed like KiKi Vanderpool, a roadie for Cher in her other life who never quite got off the bus.

I headed for my car, trying to decide if a stop at the Cakery Bakery for a cinnamon bear claw was worth the extra two miles I'd have to run to offset the calories when a guy in a navy polo and khakis hurried across the street and headed my way. He had a hundred-dollar haircut and two-hundred dollar shoes. Good-old-boy lookalike attire that was too new, too pressed, too Brooks Brothers, and not enough local Savannah shops to be the real deal. He was some guy trying to fit in because he wanted something. There's a snake in the grass, as Grandma Hilly used to say.

“Well, now, you must be Walker Boone.” The guy pulled up next to me long-lost-buddy style and held out his hand to shake. “I'm Grayden Russell. I just moved down here from Charleston, and I'd sure appreciate you sittin' a spell and telling me all about this here Tybee Island Post Theater project if you got a minute to spare. Sounds like something I'd like to take part in.”

Why I do believe I heard some hissing and rattling in the grass, didn't you? “Let me guess,” I said to Mr. Russell. “You want to audition for the talent-night benefit we're having to restore the place and put it on the National Register of Historic Places? Well, we already got a Barbra Streisand clone who knocks 'em dead, Cinnamon Sugar's doing her cross-dressing routine, so you can't be doing that either, and I do a pretty mean sax, if I do say so myself. How about playing the spoons? That one's wide open.”

Russell's jaw clenched as he tried to force a smile. “I hear your legal work's pro bono for the theater restoration. That's right nice of you.”

“I'm not the only one on the committee trying to save the place.”

“But your legal part in the matter pretty much says you're the man in charge. I'd like to save you and the rest of the committee the trouble of raising all that money to preserve the theater and just buy the place outright. The money would improve island schools and parks and maintenance and upgrade the island all the way around.”

I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my jeans and rocked back on my heels, going for the lazy lawyer approach. Letting the other guy think he had the upper hand was something I had learned back in my Seventeenth Street gang days to catch jerks off guard. “Well, the thing is, the island's more sitting-on-the-back-porch-spitting-watermelon-seeds kind of folk. We're low-country boil not oysters on the half-shell, and we sure don't need a big hotel cluttering up the place.”

Russell held up his hands in friendly protest. “I aim to restore the theater to its original stature.”

“And add a resort of that stature because the theater is grandfathered in on permits, taxes, and variances allow it to double in size if it contributes to supporting itself. Smells like beach resort to me. About those spoons . . .”

“I'm a man who gets what he wants, Mr. Boone. This doesn't make me one bit happy.”

“I'm busting out the crying towel in sympathy, that's got to be making you feel better, Mr. Russell.” That got me more jaw clenching. At this rate Russell would need dentures before Christmas.

Russell left, fading into the crowd of spring tourists on the square, but I had a gut feeling I hadn't seen the last of him. Snakes were like that; they slithered off then popped their heads up when you least expected. I got to my car, appreciating the convertible aspect on this perfect Savannah morning. Doing the stop-and-go traffic thing, I made my way to Zunzi's for a Conquistador sandwich and then to the police station. Sweet mother, where would Savannah be without Zunzi's?

I parked down the street to avoid reporters hanging around the station hunting a story then ducked around to the back entrance. I dropped off the sandwich with Officer Dumont, the desk sergeant on duty whose wife had him on a perpetual diet of baby carrots, cucumber slices, and green tea. By all rights he should have the dimensions of a phone pole. No cop should look like a phone pole, right? His eyes glazed as he studied the bag, appreciative drool pooling at the corners of his mouth. He gave me a little nod, opened the sack and pretended not to notice me heading into the bowels of the building reserved for all things cop.

“Well, you sure took your old sweet time getting here,” Mercedes said to me in a huff. She sat at Ross's desk drumming her fingers and looking antsy. “The coffee's road-kill and I only got one puny doughnut.” She jabbed her finger at the empty pink box. “How can I sustain my voluptuous womanliness with one doughnut?”

“What do you expect,” Ross said coming up behind me. “Last week Snooky Jones over in vice dumped me for that brazen pink glitter-eyed hussy down in the morgue who think she's God's gift to forensics. The only thing that helps ease my soul-piercing pain is round and fried with sugar on top.”

“Tell you what,” Mercedes said to Ross. “If I fix you up with someone better than Snooky, will you let me out of this place? I'm getting a terrible case of hives just being here.”

Ross plopped down in her chair, the little wheels on the bottom squeaking under the weight. She tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear and heaved a sigh. “Well, the only thing I have so far is that .38 did in Conway. Truth is, I don't have enough to hold you right now, but that doesn't mean I won't be poking around to see what I can find out.” She arched her left brow and settled back in her chair. “So, who you got in mind to be taking me out on the town?”

Mercedes jumped up and grabbed her pocketbook. “I'm working on it as we speak.” She snagged my hand and dragged me down the hallway bustling with blue uniforms and bad guys.

“Time's a wastin',” Mercedes panted as we pulled up next to the Chevy. “Who knows what Ross will uncover when she goes digging around in Conway's business. With me being on parole it's a slippery slope to finding trouble so you need to get cracking on this case while I'm tending to Conway over at the Slumber.”

“Why are you so nervous?” I asked Mercedes as she took shotgun and I slid behind the wheel.

“It's Conway. The man's trouble and just because he's joined the dearly departed doesn't mean that trouble isn't still hanging around those of us who are still here. I can feel it in my bones.

I cranked the motor while Mercedes hunted through her purse. “Well, love me tender and call me Elvis,” Mercedes said as she flipped open a notebook. “It looks like the gold digger twins are next on my clean-and-casket list. That's as good a place as any to start sniffing around.”

“Gold digger? Is that a good thing or bad?” I asked as we stopped for a traffic light.

“Good in that they got motive a plenty for getting rid of Conway and claiming his cleaning spot and bad that . . . well, you're you and they're them and they tend to get feisty. They live a few doors apart over on East Jones Street. Anna and Bella were named after their grandma AnnaBella who taught them the fine sport of husband hunting, and they mastered it real nice. They're thirty-and-flirty and married old-and-loaded-with-one-foot-on-a-banana-peel, if you get my drift.”

“They're lighting candles that they'll be needing your services sooner rather than later?”

“And them giving their men a first-class send-off makes for a good show and takes a bit of the sting out of the money-grubbing gossip that's sure to follow. I don't know them personal but you best keep in mind that they got womanly needs and my guess is those needs aren't being met.”

“Meaning they can't find the mall?”

“Meaning they have roving hands and hungry eyes and you got on the sexy jeans and pinstripes today. I'm willing to bet you'll find out more from them than anyone else ever would. If I don't hear from you in thirty minutes I'm calling in the marines.”

“It's just two women.”

“Honey, it's two
horny
women.”

I weaved in and out of tourist traffic, cut across Broughton to Price and dropped Mercedes off at the Slumber. I headed for East Jones. Anna lived in the William Parker House tucked neatly behind a wrought iron fence, and her sister resided in the John David Mongin House. Both places were named for the owners in the 1800s and were now occupied by the rich of Savannah and those clever enough to snare them in their waning years. Window boxes overflowed with pink and purple flowers, a huge elm shaded the front porch, the magnolia sported blooms the size of dinner plates.

“Why looky what we got here, Bella,” Anna said to her sister as she opened the door to my knocking. “If it isn't that attorney Walker Boone come to pay us a nice little visit this boring Monday afternoon. Clive and Crenshaw are off fishing out there at Whitemarsh Island so the two of us are just hanging out, and now it's the three of us all alone with nothing to do.”