Savannah Breeze (22 page)

“We're just going to borrow one,” I said. “When we get down to Fort Lauderdale.”

“When do we leave?”

“As soon as I line up things at the inn,” I said. “I've got to make sure Harry can cover for me.”

“Why can't Harry go with us to Fort Lauderdale?” Weezie asked. “He knows about boats. I bet he can help us get one.”

“No,” I said. “We can do this by ourselves. We're wonder women, remember?”

“What I remember is that we had a man to help us the last time we pulled a caper,” she pointed out. “Daniel was the wheel man. And like it or not, I think we're going to need a man to do the heavy lifting this time too, BeBe.”

“Then we'll take Daniel.”

“Can't,” she said. “He's in Charleston for the next two weeks, helping out at a new restaurant his friend is opening.”

“Not Harry,” I said, “I don't want to ask him for a favor.”

“Then I'll ask,” she said. She bit into her burger and juice went oozing down her chin.

The office doorbell
chimed while I was on the phone, tying up one of the dozens of loose ends involved in trying to leave town for a few days. “Come on in,” I called. “Be with you in a minute,” I said, not bothering to look up.

“I can wait.”

My heart fell. The voice was my grandfather's. For weeks, I'd been meaning to get over to the home for a visit, but life had gotten crazy, and to be perfectly honest, I didn't know if I could face my grandparents, aware that it was my fault they were facing financial ruin.

I stood up, amazed by how shaky my knees felt.

“Granddaddy? Is Grandmama all right?”

“Right as rain,” he said, giving me a quick hug. He glanced around the office, taking in everything. He was dressed formally—an ancient seersucker suit, a carefully pressed but yellowing white shirt, red bow tie, and black loafers with a high shine. “So this is your new business venture,” he said, nodding his head slowly. “Very nice.”

“It still needs a lot of work,” I said. “And when I get things stabilized, I'll flip it and make a nice profit. Town houses, probably. I'm thinking a gated community.”

Granddaddy held up his hand. “Child, stop. I know all about everything. How that charlatan tricked you into signing away your properties. Why the restaurant is closed and you're living here, eking out a living scrubbing bathrooms and renting rooms.” He shook his head sadly. “Why didn't you say something?”

I felt my lower lip start to tremble. “I just…I was so embarrassed. And when I found out he'd emptied your money-market account…” I pressed my fists against my eyes, trying to forestall the flow of tears. “It's all gone,” I said. “All your money. All your years of hard work. Oh, Granddaddy, I am so sorry. I will never forgive myself. It's all my fault. But I'm going to get it back. I swear to God, I will get back every nickel he stole from you.”

Granddaddy was walking around the living room, examining Harry's bookshelves, thumping the walls, admiring the woodburning stove.

“It's a cozy little place,” he said approvingly. “Not squalid at all. Your grandmother will be quite pleased. You know how she worries. From the reports we had, well, I had the idea you were living in some sort of flophouse, to tell you the truth.”

“Reports?” I frowned. “Who've you been talking to?”

Granddaddy came over to the desk and sat down in the wooden kitchen chair beside it. “Think I'm blind? BeBe, I've been in business in Savannah for sixty years. I may be old, but I'm not stupid. Besides, half the fellas in my poker club are retired bankers. Bankers are terrible gossips, you know. Never tell a banker a secret in this town.”

“So, everybody in town knows? My brothers? Arch? The rest of them too?”

He nodded. “If Arch knows, they all know.”

“God,” I moaned. “They'll never let me live this down. Not that I blame them. I was responsible for your finances. And I blew it.”

“I'm responsible for our finances,” Granddaddy said firmly. “Always have been. I trusted you to take care of some matters, and you did that very well, until you made a very foolish mistake.”

“Foolish is putting it mildly,” I said. “I was an ass. And I lost everything.”

“Not everything,” Granddaddy said. “That's what I've been trying to tell you. That money market you were managing, well, it was a lot
of money. But it wasn't everything.” He allowed himself a tight smile. “Not nearly everything.”

“You're not broke?”

“Not rich, not broke,” he said. “Comfortable. That's all I ever aimed for. Lorena and I have been very blessed. And very careful,” he added.

“Thank God for that,” I said fervently. “I could deal with losing my own money. But it was killing me that Reddy stole from you, too. I was afraid you'd lose your place at the home, I mean, Magnolia Manor. That you'd be out on the street. Like me.”

“It'd take a lot more than some snotty-nosed little pretty boy to put Spencer Loudermilk on the street,” Granddaddy said. He patted my knee. “So you can stop worrying about the old folks. We'll be just fine.”

“No,” I said. “That was your money Reddy stole. I won't rest until I get it all back. And I'm going to. You wait and see. I'm going down to Fort Lauderdale, and I'm going to get back every damn dime he took. With interest.”

“That so?” Granddaddy said, looking thoughtful. “What did you have in mind?”

Harry drove.
But I insisted on riding shotgun, so Weezie and Granddaddy sat in the backseat of the Buick, dozing all the way down Interstate 95 to Fort Lauderdale. Grandaddy snored so loudly, I couldn't believe Weezie could sleep through the racket.

While our accomplices slept, Harry and I passed the time by bickering.

“Did you show Cheri how to use the credit card machine?” I asked.

He shot me a look. “She
knows
how to use one. She works at a bar, remember?”

“What about cleaning the rooms? Are you sure Cheri's daughter understands how important it is that those rooms are absolutely spotless—every day?”

“She understands,” Harry said.

“I hope she remembers about not putting too much bleach in with the sheets and towels,” I fussed. “The last time, you bleached holes in half of them.”

“I told her no more than a cup per load,” Harry said.

“I use three-quarters of a cup.”

“And your whites never look as good as mine,” he said smugly.

“Cheri is a very nice person,” I started. “And don't get me wrong, I'm really grateful she offered to run the Breeze while we're gone. I just hope she leaves the leather look at home. I don't want our guests thinking we're some kind of biker hangout.”

“What's wrong with bikers?” Harry asked. “Their money's as good as anybody else's. We've got a Harley-Davidson club coming the last weekend of the month. They've booked every room we have.”

“Since when?” I asked, alarmed.

“You took the booking,” he said.

“I certainly did not.”

“It's your handwriting on the reservation book. PAHLs?”

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “I assumed it was some kind of civic organization. The woman who booked it sounded very refined.”

“Piedmont Area Hawg Lovers,” Harry said. “I guess you could call that a civic organization. They booked us for their spring ride last year too, even though only half the rooms were fit for a real hog.”

“God,” I said, running my hands through my hair. “What other kinds of riffraff have you booked into the place while I was looking the other way?”

“Bikers are not riffraff, damnit,” Harry said. “These people are reputable businesspeople, doctors, lawyers. I know they have at least one superior court judge.”

“Never mind,” I told him, closing my eyes to signal that we were done with this particular argument. “No matter what I say, you're going to accuse me of being a snob.”

“Because you are a snob,” Harry said. “You judge people solely on the basis of their looks. Which is why we're on our way to Florida right now.”

“I am not a snob,” I said, turning my back to him. “I have friends from all walks of life. Bartenders, chefs, antiques dealers.”

“Stuck-up downtown parasites,” Harry said.

“I'm not having this discussion,” I said.

“Fine,” he said. “Let's talk about the plan. None of this is very clear to me.”

“It's a work in progress,” I admitted. “But in essence, the plan is to steal my money back from Roy Eugene Moseley, or Rodolfo Mar
tinez, or whatever the hell name he's going by these days. And the key to that, I think, is to get ourselves a yacht.”

“And not just any yacht,” Harry said, “a Sea Urchin, which you yourself said starts at around eight million.”

“True.”

“Right. And how do you propose to acquire said yacht?”

“Well…Weezie is a very attractive woman.”

“Thank you,” Weezie said groggily. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Why are you handing me compliments in the middle of the day?”

“It's a fact,” I said. “In a caper such as the one we're going to execute, you have to use the weapons you have. We don't have any real weapons, as such.”

“I hate guns,” Weezie said.

“Me too,” I agreed. Then I patted the Electra's glove compartment. “Although I did borrow Granddaddy's little twenty-two for the trip.”

“What?” Harry and Weezie said in unison.

“What's that?” Granddaddy chimed in. “Is it lunchtime yet?”

“We had lunch an hour ago,” I pointed out. “You had mashed potatoes, green beans, fried apples, and three pork chops, not to mention a huge slab of pie at the Cracker Barrel. How can you possibly be hungry again?”

“Loudermilks have very highly tuned metabolisms,” Granddaddy said proudly. “When I was a boy, I could eat a pound of bacon and half a dozen eggs for breakfast, along with grits and biscuits and jelly. I've slacked off some in that department. But I don't gain an ounce. Nossir.” He patted his belly. “These pants I'm wearing right this minute I bought at Wagstaff's Department Store on Broughton Street in 1956.”

Said pants had once been black serge, but were now faded to a mottled gray, with a seat so shiny you could practically see your reflection in it.

“Wow,” Weezie said admiringly. “I remember Wagstaff's. There was an old black gentleman in a tuxedo who ran the elevator. When I was a little girl, I used to think he was president of the store.”

“That was Ronald,” Granddaddy said. “A fine man. He knew every customer who came in the store. But what was that you kids were saying about guns?”

“I was saying we brought your little pistol just in case there's any trouble. I know it's just an itty-bitty little popgun. But there's a lot of crime in South Florida.”

“No guns,” Harry said sternly. “Promise me or I'm outta here right now.”

“As far as I'm concerned, you can go ahead and go,” I grumbled. “It wasn't my idea to bring you along anyway.”

“BeBe!” Weezie exclaimed. “You promised to be nice.”

“This is me being nice,” I said through gritted teeth.

“No guns,” Weezie said, gripping my shoulders with both hands. “Promise.”

“Okay,” I said reluctantly.

“Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye,” Weezie prompted.

“All right. Cross my heart, blah, blah, blah.”

“Damned left-wing radicals,” Granddaddy muttered.

“No guns!” Weezie repeated.

“Now, what other kind of weapons were you saying we possess?” Harry asked.

“Weezie's attractive. We're both smart, and in this one case, I have an intimate knowledge of the criminal we're pursuing. I know what he likes, how he operates.”

“Do you know how to steal a yacht?” Harry asked.

“Borrow. We're going to borrow one. That's why I agreed to bring you along.”

“Not for my brains and good looks?”

“Hah. We need a crew for our yacht. You're a boat captain, so it seems to me you should be able to captain a yacht.”

“Piece of cake,” Harry said. “Again, how are you going to acquire said yacht?”

“I'll know when we get there,” I said.

“And when you get this yacht, you mentioned stealing your money back from Moseley. How?”

“Simple. I'm going to sell him the yacht.”

“I thought that was my job,” Granddaddy grumped.

“Right,” I agreed. “Granddaddy's going to be our yacht broker. He's been practicing. He's brilliant. He could sell ice cream to Eskimoes. But this time he's going to sell Reddy a yacht. And that way, I'll have my money.”

“Our money,” Granddaddy said. “I still think we should just kidnap the fella and beat the living daylights out of him until he coughs it up.”

“And we'll be on our way to jail for selling something we don't own. In South Florida. Where there is, as you pointed out, a helluva lot of crime,” Harry said.

“No jail,” Weezie said from the backseat. “Been there, done that. Have either of you two ever been fingerprinted? Had your shoes and all your belongings taken away from you? I have, and I'm not ever doing it again, not even for my best friend. Not for all the shrimp in Savannah.”

“No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head at Weezie and Harry's lack of vision. “It's simple. We get a yacht. Borrow one. Set Weezie up as the owner. Advertise said yacht, at a bargain price, and wait for Moseley to come skulking around.
Voilà!
I'm in the money.”

I allowed myself a small smile of satisfaction at having worked it all out—and in the face of such serious negativity.

“You're crazy,” Harry said, shaking his head. “This is not a plan. This is a fantasy. And a dangerous one too.”