Gone With a Handsomer Man (29 page)

“The closing date is around the corner, and I wanted my designer to have a look.”

I lifted Sir and unlocked the gate with my free hand. “Come on in,” I said. Mr. Randolph shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed, but his wife stepped through, followed by a perky woman with auburn hair. A low rumble started in Sir’s throat.

“He won’t bite, will he?” The auburn-haired woman put her fingers in her mouth.

“He never has.” I stroked Sir’s head. “I’ll just put him in the kitchen. Y’all look around all you want. The door’s open.”

I walked down the corridor, into the hall. The designer was eyeing the baseboards. “Is the puppy housebroken?”

“Housetrained.” I crossed the hall, into the raspberry dining room, into the butler’s pantry, and reached out one hand to shut the pocket doors. “Be nice,” I told Sir when I set him down. He looked up at me and growled under his breath, his stubby tail wagging. I turned into the kitchen.

Red Butler swiveled in the chair. “The boss here?”

“No, it’s the couple who bought the house.” I shrugged. “Their decorator came with them.”

“That’s some nerve.” He shook his head. “No way that sale is going through.”

“I didn’t want to bring up the forged signature,” I said.

“You trying to give me a heart attack? Anyhow, it’s alleged forgery. If the DA proves that Natalie did it, she’ll go to the pokey. We’re talking murder, grand larceny, and criminal possession of a forged instrument.”

“The new buyers are closing next week. The law can’t fix this by then.”

“The boss knows how to slow things down.”

“Boy, does he ever,” I said. A soothing vanilla smell wafted from the ovens. I took a breath, then found a clean bowl and began mixing ingredients. The sound of feminine voices echoed along the high ceilings. The pocket doors banged open, and the decorator strode into the kitchen, trailed by the couple.

“I see a terra-cotta ceiling,” the designer said, waving her hands. “Let’s jerk out the granite. It’s so passé. We’ll replace it with concrete.”

“Concrete?” Mr. Randolph looked shocked.

“Concrete,” the designer said with a decisive nod. She faced the old brick wall behind the cooktop and made a scrubbing motion with her hands. “The bricks are old, but they’re probably not original. So, let’s get rid of them.”

“I kinda like them,” said Mrs. Randolph, and her husband nodded.

The decorator wrinkled her nose, as if she’d caught the scent of dead mice in the walls. “You can try painting them. I’d go with black. It’ll make those white cabinets pop. But honestly? I’d get a demolition crew in here and knock out those bricks.”

“And replace them with what?” Mrs. Randolph asked.

“Copper. I see copper.” The designer’s heels snapped over the floor as she bustled around the room. She opened the dishwasher, peered inside, and moved to the warming oven. “Do the appliances work?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

“That’s too bad, they’re kinda generic. I’d prefer a Wolf range, Sub-Zero fridge, and Asko dishwashers—two of them will be perfect for entertaining. Are those ovens Thermador?” The designer stopped by the ovens and started to open the top door.

“No!” I shouted.

She jumped back, her hair swinging. “What?” she cried.

“My cakes,” I said. “They’ll fall.”

Sir growled again and scooted under the desk. He rested his head on his paws. The designer frowned. “I don’t really like animals,” she said. “Are you sure he isn’t doing poo-poo all over the floors?”

“He’s not. I promise.”

“Who decorated the kitchen?” asked the designer.

“I’m not sure. Dora Jackson did the other rooms.”

“That explains a lot.” She glanced into the dining room and smirked. “That woman is in the wrong profession. If she likes pink things, she should’ve been a gynecologist. ”

I crossed my arms, ready to defend Miss Dora with my last breath, but the designer smiled. “Do you know the history of the house?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You don’t have a file? No research?”

“I’m sure Natalie Lockhart will know,” I said. From the desk chair, Red Butler turned and gave me a warning glance.

“It would be lovely if we knew the original colors,” the designer continued. “I like to keep things authentic.” She opened a cabinet and pulled out a china plate with a bird pattern. “Do the contents come with the house?”

“I’m sure it’s all laid out in your contract,” I said, glancing at the cookbooks above Red Butler’s head. If I had to steal them again, I’d have no qualms. I thought about Uncle Elmer’s homemade music CDs, his extensive dish collection, and his secret stash of pot. Who
would
be the recipient of his belongings?

The designer turned to the Randolphs. “You might consider selling the art and accessories. I know antique dealers who’ll give you a pretty penny.”

“I like some of the stuff,” Mrs. Randolph said.

“The pink needs to go.”

“But the outside of the house is pink,” said Mrs. Randolph. “It matches.”

“A pink facade is one thing,” said the decorator, “but inside? An abomination.”

The designer faced me. “When will you be out?”

“Thursday at midnight,” I said.

The designer walked over to the French doors. “A harvest table should go right here,” she said, then glanced out at the garden. “Mind if we go outside?” she asked.

“Sure.” I waved.

The Randolphs followed the woman down the steps, onto the patio. The phone trilled, and Red Butler answered with a gruff hello. He sat up a little straighter. “Hello?” he said again. His face softened. “Oh, okay. Just a minute.” He held out the phone. “It’s for you, Teeny.”

Judging from his baffled expression, I didn’t think Coop was calling. And Miss Dora knew about the tap, so most likely it wasn’t her, either.

“Who is it?” I whispered.

“A woman.” He shrugged.

Frowning, I took the receiver. “Yes?”

“It’s Natalie,” said a breathless voice. “Is this phone tapped?”

I caught Red Butler’s eye and said, “It’s not tapped, Natalie.”

He nodded and made an OK sign.

“Fine.” Natalie released a theatrical sigh. “We need to talk. I know who killed Bing.”

“You know who killed Bing?” I tilted the phone so Red Butler could hear her reply.

“Shhh, be quiet,” Natalie said. “God knows who’s listening. Can we meet?”

“I’ll be home most of the day,” I said. “Come over.”

“I can’t.” Her voice broke. “See, they’re watching you.”

“The detectives? They aren’t interested in you.”

“Don’t you get it? The watchers are being watched. Come to my house right now.”

“Watchers?” I said.

Red Butler pointed to his ear and made little circles. “Looney tunes,” he whispered.

I wasn’t too sure. Someone else was watching? I’d spouted off about those sex tapes and fake signatures.

“I can’t come right now,” I said. “The Randolphs are here with their decorator—unless you want me to kick them out.”

“No!” She released an agonized sob. “Look, I’m risking my life just talking to you.”

“Then call the police. Tell them what you know.”

Red Butler lifted his thumb. “Perfect,” he mouthed.

“If you want to talk,” I said, “you’ll have to come here.”

“Impossible. Just come after the Randolphs leave. I’ll wait. Just don’t make me wait too long. I’ve got something you want.”

“What?”

“A surprise.”

Red Butler mouthed, “Get her addy.”

“Where do you live?” I asked her.

“You know where Hermosa Country Club is? My house is the last one on Persimmon Lane, way back in the cul-de-sac. Peach stucco with dark green shutters. Are you writing all this down?”

“Got it.”

“Be careful. Make sure you’re not followed—and bring that tape.” She hung up with a decisive click.

Red Butler took the phone from my hand and set it in the cradle. “It’s a trap,” he said. “You can’t go alone.”

“Her sex tape is at Coop’s.” I opened a drawer and grabbed a band.

“You can’t get it.” He popped his knuckles.

“What about the surprise?” I pulled back my hair and rubber-banded it.

“Teeny, you’re too innocent. The bitch plans to shoot you.”

The decorator walked through the French doors, trailed by the Randolphs, and began to outline her visions for the kitchen. I was having serious doubts about going to Natalie’s. I pulled Red Butler aside.

“My phone is tapped, right?” I whispered.

He nodded and glanced at the decorator. She was going on about the brick wall again.

I moved closer to him. “So, the police heard what Natalie said?”

“You don’t understand wiretapping,” he said. “The po-po aren’t sitting in a van, listening to your calls. Everything’s taped, and it’s miles away. I don’t know how often the police are checking, or how efficiently. I’m still waiting to hear about the trace on your death threat call. But the Radio Shack box is another story. The device isn’t taping your calls; it’s sending them via a wireless connection. So, yeah, whoever did the tap could be listening.”

“Bing’s sister is hanging around in her Winnebago. Maybe she did it.”

“Could be.” He handed me his cell phone. “I’m going to talk to the boys outside. While I’m gone, call the boss. He’s on speed dial. Tell him where we’re going.”

After he left, I scrolled through the menu, and pressed
Boss.
When Coop’s voice mail picked up, I hesitated. What to say?
Come save me, Coop. My crisis is bigger than Ava’s.
I hung up.

Red Butler walked into the kitchen just as the decorator was herding the Randolphs out of the house. “The boys outside are gonna follow us to Natalie’s house,” he said. “You talk to Coop?”

“He didn’t answer.”

On the way to his van, he called Ava. “Coop with you?” He paused. “You know where he’s at?” Another pause. “Damn, that stinks, don’t it? Listen, if you hear from the boss, tell him to call.”

He hung up and said, “Ava’s having a breakdown. She produced T-Bone’s health records, but he’s still in quarantine. The state’s suffering from budget cuts. Everything moves slower. If they don’t call in a few days, it means the skunk wasn’t rabid. Then T-Bone can come home.”

Red Butler glanced up and down the street, his sunglasses reflecting cars and buildings. Eileen’s RV was parked by the seawall. As we walked toward it, I heard meowing, but I didn’t see her anywhere.

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.”