Southern Poison (9 page)

“That would be just lovely, doll,” Lizzy crooned.

I told the waiter I’d have some champagne, too, thinking that Lady Lizzy might fall out of her chair if I asked for a beer.

As soon as the server left, Lady Lizzy leaned in and lowered her voice even though I didn’t see anybody within earshot. “So what do you have for me, Jersey?”

I lowered my voice, too. “Something that is juicy enough to cause a huge wave of chatter from your readers, and soak them with delicious speculation. But I’d like to ask you a question or two first.”

She frowned and fluttered long, spiky, glued-on eyelashes my way. “I do hope you’re not wasting my time.”

Sliding into my sorority sister role—the type of sister who honored the woman-to-woman alliance—I showed her my sincere smile. “Of course I didn’t come here to waste your time. I’ve got some great scoop and it’s exclusively yours, if you want it. All you have to do is answer a few teeny questions about some upcoming social events, since you’re the expert on these things. Consider it a trade—my scoop for your social calendar.”

“You own the Barnes Agency, right? It’s some sort of security agency!” She gulped half the flute of champagne and scanned the room for a server. “What on earth do you want with my social calendar?”

“It figures you’d have checked up on me, and yes, you’re right. I own the Barnes Agency.” I gave her my respectful smile. “See, I’m trying to obtain some high-profile business clients. My agency has
started to offer specialized, private bodyguards to VIPs—politicians, movie stars, the ultra-elites. You know the type. They’re the same ones you cover in your columns.”

She leaned back, appraising. “You’re a sharp one, Jersey. Of course I can help you out with that, but it’s not good for business to reveal details prior to publication.”

She flagged down a server, held up her empty flute. “What are you after?”

I needed a guest list of some specific events, I told her, including the two other starred dates on Soup’s list. Of course, I only mentioned the dates themselves—not the fact that my buddy had hacked into her personal computer.

“Why are you interested only in weddings? And how did you get those particular dates?”

Another glass of champagne appeared and Lady Lizzy quickly applied a layer of lip gloss before drinking some. I sipped on mine with bare lips and let the bubbles dance on the back of my tongue while I formulated a feasible explanation.

“Lady Lizzy, I’ve got sources, too. And wedding receptions aren’t the only gatherings I’m interested in. I’d like the names of any high-profile folks who will be attending any sort of event in the upcoming few months. Parties, fund-raisers, the works. I’m a woman trying to earn a living, just like you. You peddle gossip while I’m trying to peddle bodyguard services.”

She drank her champagne, more slowly than the first glass, and thought about the trade. “Okay, I’ll play your game, dahling. But you go first. I hate to get ripped off.”

Her eyes lit up at the name Jared Chesterfield, much-sought-after bachelor son of celebrity financier Samuel Chesterfield, and she not-so-subtly reached into a beaded handbag.

I shook my head. “No recording this conversation, or you don’t get the rest.”

Her jeweled hand quickly retreated. “Sorry, it’s habit.”

“No problem,” I said and served up my scoop.

She audibly gasped when I revealed that Jared is gay and her mouth actually made a round O when I told her that he would be attending a public event with his equally handsome boyfriend of two years. Jared planned to come out, and he would do it in grand style, at a black-tie fund-raiser for the arts. The information was especially valuable to Lizzy, since Jared had recently been front-page news across the nation. Shortly after moving to Wilmington to open a new branch office of Chesterfield Financial, he’d been kidnapped and nearly murdered. Although Ox and I had saved his life, we were content to let law enforcement accept the accolades and face the press.

“Amazing! Does his father know? How did you get this?” Lizzy asked, hand dramatically resting over her heart.

“As I said, I have my sources, too.” My informant had actually been Jared himself. I’d been staying in touch with both Jared and his father, and after learning of Jared’s newfound zest for life in the open, I asked his permission to “leak” his story. He thought it was a fantastic idea, and was looking forward to the media coverage of him being out with his boyfriend. But Lady Lizzy didn’t know that. And thanks to her, Wilmington and the rest of the country would be abuzz the day after the fund-raiser.

Freshly bathed, oiled, and perfumed people began roaming about, laughing and drinking, expectantly waiting for the bride and groom to arrive. A screech of feedback sounded through an amplifier when the band fired up their equipment. As I didn’t think terrorists would have reason to blow up a NASCAR driver or a television actress, it was time for me to go.

“Your turn, Lady Lizzy, and make it quick. The party’s about to start.”

She threw some names at me off the top of her head and promised to e-mail a complete list of everybody who was anyone at all,
and rumored to attend an upcoming event in either Brunswick or New Hanover County, which covered Southport to Wilmington. I made it clear that I’d leak my tidbit of news to someone else if she didn’t come through, and she agreed to send the e-mail the following day.

We did the double air-kiss again and I headed to the parking lot. For some weird reason, the rich smell of leather in my X5 made me think of Ox. Irony not lost on me, I silently thanked God for work, even though I was supposed to be retired. It had kept my mind off my business partner for an entire hour and a half. Navigating the short drive home, I debated whether or not I should start doing some lunch runs with Mama Jean’s truck, just to keep myself occupied and away from the Block. Which made me think about the additional income—slight though it would be—and who would get it. Did Mama Jean have children? Or a will? Was somebody going to show up to sell off her small mobile vending business? I knew nothing about the woman, but decided I would have very much liked her, had we known each other.

Ox enrolled Lindsey
in the local high school, where classes would start in a few days. Growing up, I never started school until mid-September, and helping her purchase back-to-school supplies in August seemed odd. Ox agreed to let her work at the Block and she’d already started her job as a hostess, even though our customers always seat themselves. I had to admit, though, that Lindsey’s bubbly enthusiasm brightened up the place. And although too young to serve drinks, she could help Ruby and the other servers run food as needed.

I’d finished my roach coach shift and was at the Block, teaching Lindsey how to greet customers, promote the menu, and be on alert for anyone who’d had too much to drink. It was a basic employee training session that Ox would have normally handled, but he’d taken the day off, presumably to spend it with his ex. Which set my stomach off like a blender filled with razor blades, if I thought about it too long. I resisted the urge to quiz Lindsey on the status of her father and mother’s reunion. Find out what the two of them
were doing today. And ask if she knew which bed Louise was sleeping in.

“Get yourself over to the corner table, for crying out loud,” Spud said to Lindsey, shuffling up with the aid of a cane shaped like a long female arm and hand. The fingers were the floor tips and the shoulder was carved into a hand grip. His collection of walking canes is legendary around the Block. “The boys are coming to play some cards and you’re the fifth. No coins this time; we’re playing with chips only. Big lunch day for the cops and they don’t like to see money changing hands.”

“Spud, I’m working. I can’t play until I finish my shift”—she consulted her watch—”which will be in twenty minutes. Oh, and by the way, I scheduled a photo shoot with some magazine lady who called this morning. She wants shots of you and the other artists posing with the Chrysler. Actually, she called the car a ’magnificent sculptural juxtaposition of real crime and heartfelt humanity,’ whatever that means.”

“You did what?” I asked, even though I’d heard her just fine. Cracker sauntered over, and he looked at the girl with a cocked head, too.

“I went ahead and set up Spud’s photo shoot for next week. The lady—Sally Stillwell—said that her editor at
Eclectic Arts&Leisure
might even use Spud’s picture as the magazine cover. How cool is that?”

Spud hemmed and hawed. “For crying out loud, doodlebug. I ain’t no artist.”

“Everybody has some artist in them. Mom always says that. Of course, she’s big on reincarnation, so I guess if you’re enough people, at some point you probably would have been a real artist. Anyway, the magazine lady called you an innovative sculptor—not a plain of artist.”

“She did?”

“Yep. Said she’s like, never seen anything quite like your work. Oh, and she can’t wait to see the rest of it.”

Bobby appeared. “We can shoot something else to smithereens, if that’s all it takes to make a sculpture.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I can be an artist.” Spud used his cane like an orchestra director’s wand. “We can use somebody’s garage as a workshop and Bobby’s van will be good to haul stuff. Might have to find us an old abandoned appliance or lawn mower or some such. We can shoot it up at the firing range.” He paused to rub a hand over his wrinkled face. “I’ll probably need to grow a ponytail and a goatee, if I’m gonna be an artist.”

By the time we finished not-quite-arguing about my father’s venture into professional metal sculpting, twenty minutes had passed and Lindsey’s shift was over.

“You’re the best, Jerz!” She gave me a hug and then squatted to do the same to Cracker. “Thanks for letting me work at the Block, and crash at your place for a while. Wilmington really rocks!”

It is hard to stay out of sorts with someone who has so much genuine charisma, even if she is an ignition button for trouble. I told her she was welcome, once again struck by the observation that her features were her father’s. The girl was gorgeous.

“Excuse me,” a man said, handing over a business card. “I couldn’t help but to notice your daughter’s Derma-Zing design.” Average height, he was well-groomed, well-spoken and dressed in well-fitting business attire. I read the card, which declared him to be Dr. Edward C. Holloman, president of Derma-Zing. The address was out of state and there was a copyright symbol next to the word Derma-Zing. I didn’t correct his assumption that I was Lindsey’s mom.

“My name is Jersey and this is Lindsey,” I said, taking his proffered hand.

“Can we sit for a moment? I’d like to talk to you.”

Lindsey told Spud that she’d join the poker game later and
returned with three ice waters on a tray. “Would you like something to drink besides water?”

The man didn’t. I thought about a beer, but refrained. The three of us slid into an empty booth.

“This is going to sound strange, I know, but I promise I’m legit.” He opened his briefcase, pulled out a large envelope, and dropped it on the table. “As you see from my business card, my company owns Derma-Zing, which is a new product that is popular among teenagers.”

Lindsey nodded. “Yeah, it’s totally excellent. I’d never heard about it, until one of my friends told me, like, maybe a couple of months ago. Now, everybody at my school in California wears designs.”

“Exactly my problem,” Holloman said. “Derma-Zing is all the rage among teenage girls who’ve been exposed to the product, but in some parts of the country, kids have never heard of it. It’s time to take Derma-Zing to the next level. I’ve decided to go with some print ads in
Teen
and
Cosmo Girl
magazines, plus air a month-long campaign of thirty-second television spots on MTV, VH1, and the Disney Channel.”

Lindsey crossed her arms and leaned back to listen. A move I’d seen her father make a hundred times when hearing a pitch from a stranger. I drank my water, thinking that such an advertising campaign would require a sizable budget.

“I’ve been searching for a spokesmodel for a month now, and haven’t found her.” He removed a stack of eight-by-ten glossies from the envelope and spread them across the tabletop. “This is what the talent agency keeps sending me. Totally generic. These girls are pretty, sure. But I need a face that makes a
statement.
I need someone
with personality.
Someone who is unique, but someone who other girls will identify with.” He waved a hand at the model cards. “These aren’t what Derma-Zing is all about.”

Lindsey pulled a sheet out of the stack. “This one looks a lot like
Lindsay Lohan. What’s wrong with her? And, what kind of a doctor are you?”

The man laughed. “I’m not a medical doctor. I have a Ph.D. in chemistry, and I guess my secretary thought the ’Dr.’ looked impressive when she had my cards printed.”

“Seems kind of silly to me, since your cards are for Derma-Zing—not an orthopedic medical group or something,” Lindsey said.

“Well, maybe I’ll have that changed next time I need business cards. As for the Lindsay Lohan look-alike, I don’t want to use her because she’s not the real deal. I’d love to hire an actual celebrity like Lohan, or Hilary Duff, but I don’t have that kind of money.”

“This has all been quite interesting, Dr. Holloman, but why did you want to speak with us?” I asked, even though I had a good guess as to where the conversation was headed.

“I just stopped in for a sandwich. But as I was eating and saw Lindsey, I said to myself, that’s her. That’s the face of my spokesmodel. And when I noticed a Derma-Zing design on her shoulder, I took it as a sign.”

Lindsey sat up. “Really? You want me to be your model for, like, Derma-Zing?”

“Well, yes, as long as the test footage looks good. Though I can’t see why it wouldn’t. I imagine you’re still in high school, but we can work around your schedule and do both the magazine photo shoots and the TV commercials right here in Wilmington. And the money the job pays would be enough for a year’s worth of college tuition.”

“Sweet! What do I have to do?”