Demise in Denim (7 page)

Steffy Lou floated out the door in a wave of black taffeta, Southern sophistication, and sweet vanilla. She headed down the hall and I hoisted Old Yeller onto my shoulder, opened the back door, and slipped into the night, my brain fixated on Grayden Russell, whoever he was. The parking
lot seemed to be Mason Dixon free, so I headed for the car but changed my mind. Figuring KiKi would be hungry after a night of twenty questions with Mason Dixon and the fact that I'd skipped dinner to catch up on laundry, I suffered the pain of walking in heels and hoofed up Price to York in a quest for food. I could drive the sexy Chevy, but it was easier to leave it moored safely at its present location and walk.

Inhaling deeply, I caught the spicy scent of Walls' BBQ a block before I spied the little red bench on the covered porch. Walls' was a hidden-away hole-in-the-wall kind of place, surrounded by small day shops and frequented by locals and tourists lucky enough to find it with the help of Yelp and Google Maps. My mouth started to water in anticipation of tender ribs with a side of collard greens. I'd get the small portions for a change, as pigging down at this hour probably wasn't a great idea for my waistline or my digestive system, but . . . but someone was following me?

During the day York had its share of foot traffic, but at night I walked alone. The shadows were dark and deep, with lamplight tucked behind oak leaves and layers of Spanish moss. Usually those things offered ambiance with a touch of Southern romance; right now not so much.

I could feel eyes boring into my back, and I did what any woman would do in my situation. I hugged Old Yeller tight like a security blanket and ran like the devil to get my ribs! I ordered quarter portions, then tore back to the Chevy, my feet not touching the ground and basic primal fear spurring me on. By the time I garaged the Chevy I had blisters the size of peach stones and I was walking barefoot.

I took the moonlit path around the side of Cherry House,
feeling calmer with Southern cuisine tucked under my arm and BW and KiKi waiting on the front porch with a shaker of martinis. For some, home was supper on the table at five, cookies in the oven, or a fire in the hearth. For KiKi and me it seemed to be a martini shaker and a dog on the porch, and a few of those cookies were okay, too. Home sweet home indeed, even if it did have a hole in the roof.

“So that's where you hightailed it off to,” KiKi said to me as she eyed the white bag in my arms and inhaled deeply. She had on the blue floral housecoat I'd given her for her birthday and matching rollers already curled into her hair. She handed me a frosted martini glass, with a toothpick speared through a tiny gherkin pickle.

“Out of olives?”

“We don't want to be boring.”

“It's been a day of sequins, fire trucks, and funerals.”
And stalkers
, but KiKi didn't need to fret over every little detail of my life, now did she? “I think we're at a ten on the nonboring scale.”

I put the bag from Walls' between us, and the heavenly aroma surrounded us as KiKi smacked her lips. “Find anything out from Dixon?” I asked, handing her a take-out container. I took the other and pulled out a plain hot dog for BW that Walls' threw in for free. BW parked between us and I broke the hot dog into nice bite-size pieces, and then we all three dug in.

“Dixon is not a happy camper, I can tell you that,” KiKi said, slurping sauce off her fingertips. “My guess is it has to do with you in his office and suspecting him of blackmail. I'd watch myself with that one, dear.”

She patted my knee, then took another bite of rib, her eyes glazing over in ecstasy. “You got to realize that the Plantation Club might be all proper decorum on the outside, but underneath it's pretty much the Wild West show and last-man-standing mentality.” She expertly caught a drip of sauce with her tongue. “Did you happen to find Mercedes's mystery man?”

“He was that guy at the funeral in the cowboy hat. He nearly ran me over in the parking lot with his white pickup.”

KiKi stopped the rib bone halfway to her mouth. “Built like a fireplug? Mustache? Crazy eyes?”

“One of your dance students?”

“Angie Gilbert's husband. She's my canasta partner and she's a nurse. She used to visit Conway at his house and give him B-12 shots and a little personal attention to rev up his heart, if you get my drift.”

I licked sauce off my pinky. “Well, the old boy saw fit to kill Conway a second time; do you think he has it in him to do the deed the first time?”

KiKi shook her head. “He was out of town, a flight to New York. He goes every other week like clockwork. Angie timed her B-12 visits that way.”

“He could have doubled back.”

“It's a 747, honey, not a Honda.”

The stalker event killed my appetite. It was a rotten ending to a rotten day when even Walls' didn't look good to me. I packed up the greens and ribs for later.

“Are you okay?” KiKi asked with a hint of concern.

“Too many windmill cookies, is all. So,” I added fast, to keep KiKi from asking more questions, “that takes Angie's
husband off the table for killing Conway, and Mason Dixon doesn't fit either. Why would Dixon kill the guy who was paying him off? The gold-digger sisters were angry with Conway and Boone, but murder's a big leap. Tucker hated his dad, but why kill him? Just don't return his phone calls and don't invite him for Thanksgiving dinner. Any other gossip floating around?”

Auntie KiKi slurped her martini, the perfect accompaniment to ribs or in KiKi's opinion anything else. “Some guy is trying to buy the Tybee Post Theater, and no one's much liking the idea.”

“That's Grayden Russell; he's staying at the Old Harbor Inn. I met up with Steffy Lou Adkins in the little girls' room at the Slumber, and she said Russell was after Boone.”

“Steffy Lou and you chatting it up?”

“She liked my purse.”

KiKi snagged a napkin, mopped herself up, and then finished off her martini. “You know, I haven't been to the Old Harbor Inn in years, and this Russell person seems to be sittin' right in the middle of all this mess.”

“That's a stretch.”

“Honey, all we got is stretch. I hear tell the inn serves up a mighty fine breakfast.”

“Breakfast there is only if you bed there.”

“We'll improvise. Mess up your hair, wear your bunny slippers, and dream up a room number. I'll have the Batmobile fueled up and ready to fly at eight
sharp.”

“W
HAT
do you mean, KiKi can't make it?” I said to Chantilly, both of us not quite awake, which was proven by the fact that we were staring blankly into my empty refrigerator at seven thirty in the morning.

“That's why I'm here,” Chantilly said. “KiKi is having an attack of tummyitis and wants me to fill in even though I didn't get to bed till after two from catering the Adkins wake, and why don't you ever have food in this house?”

“I have SpaghettiOs and hot dogs.”

Chantilly stifled a burp. “KiKi said something about breakfast at the Old Harbor Inn. I thought you had to bed at the inn to breakfast there.”

“You do; KiKi and I were going to breakfast-crash.” I gave Chantilly a hard look, as what she had just said about KiKi started to sink in. “A tummy problem? Well, that explains
why I can't find my leftovers of ribs and greens from Walls' in here. It was right there.” I pointed to the second shelf. “She knows where I keep my spare key and helped herself.”

“Girl, everyone knows where you keep your spare key.”

“Hey, I moved it.”

“Where this time? The second flowerpot instead of the first?”

“Maybe. That thieving auntie snuck over here in the middle of the night in a barbecue frenzy and ate my food and didn't even leave me the bag.” I sucked in a breath. “Wow, that was a lot of leftovers on top of what she already scarfed down; the woman deserves to have a jelly belly.”

Chantilly closed the fridge door. “The ribs and greens aren't going to magically appear just because you want them to. Frankly, ribs at this hour isn't my thing anyway, and if we're going to crash breakfast let's get a move on. How are we going to do this?”

“No idea. I don't do ideas at seven thirty.”

“So is there some special reason for all this?” Chantilly added as I kissed BW good-bye on the snout and watched as he dragged his favorite chew toy to the top of the steps.

“We're going to see a man about a murder . . . I think,” I said, closing the back door and heading for the garage.

“Oh goody, the perfect follow-up to yesterday. Some people start the morning with the newspaper and Frosted Flakes, you know.”

I backed the Chevy out of the garage and powered down the convertible top. “We got to put on the boot.”

“It's summer; I don't do boots in summer.”

“It's the thing that covers the convertible top when it's down.”

“That's a lot of trouble.”

“You'll thank me.”

Grumping and grousing, Chantilly got out and together we performed the time-honored tradition of snapping on the leather boot, and then we took off.

“This is simply amazing,” Chantilly said, her face to the sky, as sunlight peeked through the low-hanging branches of the live oaks forming a canopy overhead. Two hard hats offered wolf whistles and a wave, and Chantilly and I smiled and waved back. Some women would find this offensive, but in my book a little male appreciation was just what I needed to keep my hormones pumping.

“Thank you.” Chantilly grinned.

“You're welcome, but we need to be thanking Boone.”

“You know, everyone in this city should have a convertible. It should be some kind of city law,” she purred.

“Until it's August, one hundred in the shade, and mosquitoes are the size of a bus.” Having a car was really nice; the more I drove Boone's, the more I wanted one. No bus to wait on, no walking in the rain unless I wanted to, I could pick up Fox supplies and consignment items, and I could make midnight runs to Parkers in my jammies if BW and I felt the need.

I took East Broad heading toward the Savannah River; the tourist traffic picked up the closer we got to the historic district. I crossed Bay Street, eased around Emmet Park, and dropped down onto the stone street below Factor's Walk, where back in the day factors called out bids from above for the cotton
wagons passing below. The lower level of the Old Harbor Inn was to the right; the hotel was sandwiched neatly between Factors Walk and River Street. Prime real estate indeed.

“Look out!” Chantilly braced herself and I slammed on the brakes as a gray sports car gunned up the short lane lined with river rocks, cars, people, and us. It squealed around the corner as pedestrians dived for safety and offered the one-finger salute in reply.

Chantilly stared at me wide-eyed. “What the—”

“Are you okay, Miss Chantilly?” the valet from the Old Harbor Inn asked, rushing our way.

“I . . . I think so.” Chantilly flipped back her mussed hair, and I felt my heart settle back into my chest. Chantilly did a double take at the valet. “We've met?”

“Lamar Jones.” The valet smoothed his smart maroon vest, which was the same color as the Old Harbor Inn's awnings. “I've seen you with Mr. Pillsbury. He got me this here gig and a place to stay. Righteous dude.” Lamar's lips pulled into a hard line and he gazed toward the corner. “And Grayden Russell's a jerk.”

“You know him?” I asked.

“He's staying here and probably taking his car around to River Street on the other side to drop off that heavy surveying equipment he lugs around. He and some other guy get out at the docks early, taking measurements and whatever before it's congested with tourists waiting for ferries and deep-sea fishing boats. Maybe today someone will push Russell in; he treats the staff and everyone here like dirt.” Lamar's gaze fixed on Chantilly. “Please don't be telling Pillsbury I said that. He'll be pissed I was being disrespectful.”

Chantilly did the lock-the-lips thing, and I passed Lamar twenty bucks and a business card that I had made up for the Fox. “If you could let me know what Russell is up to, I'd appreciate it, and do you mind if we park here for a few minutes?”

Lamar passed back the twenty and added a smile. “There's a spot behind you for this sweet ride, and be my pleasure keeping you up to date.”

Lamar welcomed another guest to the inn as I parked the Chevy and killed the engine. I turned sideways in my seat and faced Chantilly. “Okay, we need an excuse to talk to Russell. Something friendly and casual.”

“So how does this guy fit into a murder?”

“Russell was after Walker and Steffy Lou Adkins because they wouldn't get behind his plan to buy the Tybee Post Theater; they're trying to save the place as a theater for the performing arts. Now Steffy Lou's father-in-law is dead and Walker is framed for the murder. KiKi thinks there might be a connection of some sort.”

Chantilly stared at me for a beat. “Really? That's all you got?”

“Right now it's the best I got of anything.”

“Lord have mercy, Walker's gonna fry.” Chantilly got out of the car and hooked her finger in a
follow me
gesture. “Since we're here, we'll talk to the guy.”

“Breakfast-crashing?”

“Still got that twenty? I'm starving, aren't you starving? I just bet Russell feels the same way and I bet he's a man who likes to be catered to. I'm a caterer, I know about these things.”

I had no idea what Chantilly was talking about, but she
seemed to have a plan and that beat the nothing going on in my brain. We opened the door to the Old Harbor Inn and I followed Chantilly inside. The reception desk was on the upper level, and we trooped to the main floor, avoided the desk, and headed toward the clatter of china and chitchat from guests in the back. I took in the yellow-and-white breakfast room overlooking the Savannah River with sightseeing boats, tenders, and ferries at the docks. Chantilly talked shop with the headwaiter. She slipped him the twenty and came back with two white Old Harbor Inn towels and a tray laden with pastries, plates and napkins, and a coffee carafe and mugs. “How do you feel about being a waitress?”

“Depends on the tips.”

Chantilly stuffed the towel into her waistband across her front to look waitresslike and I followed suit. She snagged the tray, I took the carafe, and we headed out the back entrance onto River Street.

Sure enough, our man Russell was standing on the dock. He had on a red Atlanta Braves baseball cap, and there was another guy with him in khakis and a green polo. Some sort of surveying camera/telescope thing was set up on a tripod, drawings were laid out on a little table, and a toolbox sat open with tape measures and the like spilling out onto the wood plank flooring. It was just like Lamar said.

“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Russell,” Chantilly called in a friendly voice, adding a big toothy grin. “We have some nice refreshments here for you and your guest, compliments of the hotel. We like to take special care of our important clients.”

Russell stopped staring through the telescope thing. He gave us a lurid once-over, making my skin crawl. Wolf
whistles and waves were fine; Russell was plain creepy. He eyed the coffee. “Sure, why not.”

I poured out two mugs and Chantilly offered the pastries, saying, “You gentlemen are sure hard at work out here in the morning sun. Don't you think our Savannah docks are safe enough?”

“Just checking things, is all. Don't you worry your pretty little heads about it,” khakis guy said in a smart-man-to-dumb-woman voice. Munching a slice of pound cake, he gazed out at the river and said to Russell, “This is going to work. We'll get the divers here to check the water depth. Savannah's a deep-river port; we're good to go. How's that guy you're working with?”

Russell hunched. “Not the sharpest knife in the box. You'll meet him at the game.” He held out his mug to me for a refill and stopped, eyes focusing. “I know you.”

Drat. Everybody knew me. I needed one of those big-round-glasses-with-plastic-nose disguises. It couldn't be any more obvious than my present face.

“Thought you were a waitress over at the Plantation Club,” Russell continued.

“I freelance a lot.”

“And you were on TV, something to do with Walker Boone.” Russell glanced over to Chantilly. “Get out of here, both of you.”

“More Danish?” Chantilly offered the tray.

“Buzz off and stay out of my business.” Russell's eyes hardened to bits of gray steel, and he picked up a hammer from the toolbox. “You don't want to mess with me, girl. Whatever you heard, you didn't hear. Got it?”

Normally I was a get-out-of-here kind of person, especially if there was a hammer involved, but I had zilch on finding Conway's killer, getting Boone off the hook, getting the crime scene tape off Conway's house, and finally getting my blasted furniture and a car.

“Why are you so interested in the docks?” I pressed on. “What property are you buying and why are you going after the Tybee Post Theater?”

Something flickered in Russell's eyes. Bingo, I'd hit a nerve. “I like river property and I like show tunes, wanna make something of it?” He took a step closer and I didn't back up. “You have no idea who you're messing with,” he hissed.

“Maybe I do.” My insides shook so bad I thought I might fall apart, but I still didn't budge. It wasn't that I was heroic but more the fear that if I did move I'd collapse.

“We got a problem over here?” a policeman on horseback said as he trotted on over.

“We're just having morning coffee,” Russell beamed, holding up the mug, and Chantilly offered the policeman a Danish. “And taking a few dock measurements. The Savannah River is a beautiful sight.”

Mr. Policeman bent down and snagged the pastry. “Hey,” he said to me. “Don't I know you?”

Glasses with nose for sure. “Just a waitress.” I nodded at the inn.

Chantilly grabbed my towel and tugged me along. “And we have to get back inside right now. This is our busy time. Yep, busy little bees.”

We dodged an orange tourist trolley motoring down
River Street, its auto-play warbling on about the exploits of James Oglethorpe and his peeps, and we ducked into the back entrance of the inn. Chantilly stopped me inside the hallway and closed the door. “What in the name of all that's holy are you doing? Did you see that dock out there? You're going to wind up facedown in the water right beside it.”

“Yeah, but we poked the bear.”

“Ya think?”

I dropped my voice. “Now we know why Russell is here, and it's not just to buy the Tybee Post Theater. He's after the Old Harbor Inn, too. I saw it on the plans spread out on that table.”

Chantilly started to say something, and I shook my head. “We can't talk here.”

A maid hustled by, then stopped, eyeing the tray and giving us a curious look. “Who are you?”

Chantilly and I simultaneously slapped on bright cheery smiles, the Southern woman's answer to any and all unpleasant situations that might arise.

“Why, we're with Mr. Russell, who's staying here at the inn with you all.” Chantilly handed her the tray as I passed over the carafe, and then we added our aprons. “We're just returning these, and Mr. Russell said to tell you that the pastries were divine and to add the charge to his room. And if it's not too much of a bother, to tack on a nice fifty-dollar tip for the valet out front who is always so helpful and polite beyond words.”