Killer in Crinolines (4 page)

KiKi perched the hat on her head, fluffed her humidity-influenced auburn hair, and studied her reflection in the hall mirror. “So where did you head off to last night? I heard the Beemer backing out of the drive. Putter had on his earphones and dozed off to
Sleeping Your Way Out of Sand Traps
. Lordy, this hat makes me look like a redheaded Hillary Clinton with a perm; your mother would have a heart attack.”

KiKi tossed the hat back on the counter and picked up a blue straw bag. “Now this is more like it. Sold.”

With no customers we sat at the dining room table between the display of costume jewelry and evening bags. On one side of the room, dresses hung from a dowel suspended between coat racks; blouses, jackets, and suits hung on the other side of the room. I’d draped pink, white, and tan skirts across the back of a Duncan Phyfe sofa on consignment and displayed shoes across a knickknack shelf salvaged from Mamma’s attic.

“I drove out to Magnolia Plantation intending to talk to the guard and see if he knew anything about the murder. I even took along a Conquistador as a little enticement but Boone beat me to the punch with a black-eyed pea sandwich.”

“From Matthews?”

“Is there anyplace else? I split the Conquistador with Boone and he grudgingly told me that Chantilly’s fingerprints were on the cake knife, and she promised Simon she’d see him dead and in the grave.”

“It’s like Cher says,
Words are weapons, they do terrible damage.
On this particular occasion Chantilly went and did it all to herself.”

Back in the day, Auntie KiKi was a roadie for Cher, never quite left the tour, and has been spouting Cher-isms to the rest of Savannah ever since. “Maybe Chantilly knocked off Simon for real?” KiKi went on. “You can’t rule out the obvious, and heaven knows the man had it coming.”

“Chantilly can’t be the only person Simon messed over. Even Detective Ross noticed that Waynetta didn’t seem overly distraught about Simon being among the dearly departed. With this being her wedding day she should have passed out cold right there on the floor. Fact is she was a lot more upset about the possibility of returning wedding presents, and did you notice her dress was falling right off? What was that all about?”

“I know for a fact that Doreen-the-wedding-planner considered murdering Simon a time or two, she told me so herself. She got all the blame when things didn’t go right. The man was single-handedly ruining her reputation.”

“And that’s just what Simon has gone and done to me even from the grave,” Chantilly whimpered as she shuffled through the front door in the very same clothes she’d had on Saturday. She leaned against the doorjamb, her hair limp and scraggly around her pale oval face, her uniform still smeared with icing and a UPS package in her hand.

“Oh, honey, I’m so glad you’re out of jail.” I gave Chantilly a hug and tried not to gag from the aroma of jail mixed with rancid icing. I led her to a chair next to KiKi. “Are you okay?”

“Mamma and Daddy put their condo up as collateral and posted bail for me this morning, bless their hearts. Percy was sort of clueless on that particular point of law since he’s mostly into real estate law, but with Daddy being a retired policeman he knew the ropes and got Percy though it just fine and dandy. I went straight to work, didn’t even bother to change. The police took my package delivery truck as part of their crime scene and now I have a loaner.”

Chantilly handed me the package she brought in with her. “Neither rain or snow or gloom of incarceration keeps this carrier from her appointed rounds. A little UPS humor.”

“Uh, this here package is for Reginald Sinclair over on West Gaston,” I said to Chantilly. “Reginald is sixty, bald, and makes the pest pecan pies you ever put in your mouth.”

“And yours are like sawdust.” Chantilly grabbed back the package and burst into tears. She banged her forehead on the table. “This is it. I’m doomed. I’m fixing to get myself fired.” She sobbed. “My boss is all upset with me putting a UPS truck in danger the way I did, and I have to pay Percy and I don’t have much saved up, and my rent’s due. “

I took Chantilly’s hand. “Your friends will stick by you. We’ll figure this out; you’ll be okay.”

“I don’t have friends anymore.” Chantilly sobbed harder. “When you ride a horse naked and make a few tequila-induced threats, your friends sort of fade into the woodwork.”

“I’ll help you any way I can, you know that. I’m here for you and so is KiKi.”

Chantilly stopped crying and peered up at me through bloodshot eyes. “You really mean that?”

“Of course we do,” KiKi offered in her best caring auntie voice while keeping an odor-buffer distance away. “Friends through thick and thin, that’s what we are around here. Reagan will make you breakfast, some nice bacon and eggs will do you up just fine. I’ll wash your uniform while you take a long, hot shower.”

I started for the kitchen, hoping I had enough detergent to detox the uniform and something in my fridge other than hot dogs when Chantilly pulled me back down hard beside her. “I don’t need breakfast,” she said. “What I do need is someone to make my deliveries, fill in for me, and do the job right. If I screw up anything else, I’ll wind up in the unemployment line for sure.” Chantilly threw her arms around me in a bear hug. “You’re the best.”

Auntie KiKi gave me a supportive pat on the back. “I do declare that is a mighty fine idea. Everyone will get their rightful parcels like they should and be pleased as punch about it. You can do this, Reagan, honey. Right neighborly of you to offer.”

“And Miss KiKi can go with you,” Chantilly added, all smiles. “She can look for addresses while you do the driving. All the packages are grouped together by zip codes and streets. You drop them off and get a signature for anything over a thousand bucks. Easy-peasy.”

KiKi had the deer-in-headlights look about her now that the shoe was on the other foot. She waved a hand over the dining room. “Uh, someone needs to be here to mind the Fox. Besides, I look plum awful in brown, makes me look washed out and pasty like. I do much better in greens.”

Chantilly took the cap with official UPS letters in gold lettering off her head and plopped it on mine. “Don’t you fret one little bit about that, Miss KiKi. I only have one uniform with me right now.” She looked down at the icing smears and gave a few futile swipes. “It’s a bit of a mess at the moment, but that doesn’t really matter much, now does it.”

“It’s kind of smelly,” I said.

Chantilly waved away the criticism. “We’ll perfume it, fix it up good as new.” She shoved Reginald’s package into KiKi’s hand. “You all best be on your way. UPS runs a tight ship here in Savannah. I’ve seen the Abbott sisters fill in here at the Fox a time or two. I can go over and get them to help me with the store. They can teach me the ropes.”

“What about Bruce Willis? I have a dog to take care of.”

Chantilly scratched BW behind the ears. “We’ve bonded. I bring him hot dogs.”

“Honey,” KiKi said, desperation seeping into her voice, her arm around Chantilly mamma style. “Everyone will wonder where you are. You’ll get reported for not showing up and having phony UPS wannabes filling in for you.”

Chantilly swiped away the remaining tears, a little smile tipping the corners of her mouth. “No one pays any attention to a person in uniform, especially if all’s going well. You could be from Mars with little green antennae sticking out of your head and no one would pay you any mind at all. As long as folks get their packages they don’t much care who does the dropping off. I’m grateful to you all, I truly am.” She kissed my cheek then KiKi’s. “You’ll look fine as can be in my uniform, Reagan. This is wonderful.”

• • •

“This is terrible,” I said to kiki ten minutes later while aiming the UPS truck, officially called a package car, up Abercorn. “I look like a log in flip-flops and smell like a French woman of ill repute.”

“And you’re in bad need of that fake tan stuff. Your legs are so white they could blind a person at twenty paces.”

“Sun’s bad for you.”

“So is looking anemic like you’re from New York City, God forbid.” KiKi rolled her eyes to heaven and made the sign of the cross for mentioning a Yankee location. She’d parked herself on a big box next to me with the delivery information acquisition device thing clamped between her knees. I took a turn too fast and the packages in the back shifted, KiKi hanging on to the dashboard to keep from sliding out of the doorway.

“Sweet Jesus in heaven, you’re going to kill us both,” KiKi mumbled. “If not from your driving skills, then the smell coming off that there uniform. We have over a hundred packages to deliver. How are we ever going to manage such a thing? How are we going to breathe?”

“What’s out first stop?”

KiKi studied the DIAD. “Says here River Street Sweets. Least I can get a few pralines to sustain life. All I had this morning was a cup of coffee with that artificial sweetener stuff. Putter says I need to watch my sugar intake of all things, but it’s common knowledge that no one survives Savannah summer heat on one little old cup of coffee with fake sugar. Whoever thought of such stuff, bet it was a Yankee.”

It took a half hour to hand off two packages because KiKi wanted extra hush puppies with her fried oysters to go at Tubby’s, maintaining it would act like an air freshener in the truck. There was also a lengthy discussion about some foul odor creeping down the Savannah River and how the paper mill must be acting up again.

“Look at all these cupcakes,” KiKi said as we walked into Cakery Bakery, customers sitting at wireframe sweetheart chairs with matching marble-top tables. A ceiling light of gingerbread cookies added to the delicious ambiance; a cupcake clock ticked off the minutes. I gained two pounds surveying the décor. KiKi handed the packages to me then elbowed two elderly ladies out of the way and pressed her nose against the display case of cakes, cupcakes, pies, and cookies. “So many goodies.” She sighed. “So little time.”

“Can I help you?” GracieAnn Harlow asked as she pranced out from the kitchen area, wiping her hands on her white frilly apron. She had a layer of flour dusted across her cheeks and a pencil with a cupcake eraser slid behind her ear. GracieAnn was midtwenties, green-eyed, cute as a pug puppy, and of the same proportions.

I eyed the raspberry supreme cupcakes with pink swirl icing and mumbled a quick Hail Mary to ward off temptation. “How are you doing today, GracieAnn?” I offered in usual Savannah greeting.

GracieAnn sniffed the air. “What is that gawd-awful odor? I do believe it came in here off the street.” She waved her hand in front of her nose to clear the stench, her eyes watering. “What is this city coming to?”

“Sewer backup?” I offered and handed over the packages. “Top one’s for you, the other for Miss Delta.”

“She’s in the back baking for the Wagner brunch tomorrow,” GracieAnn said. “No matter what happens, it won’t be holding a candle to the goings-on out there at the Waverly wedding. What started out as a mighty bad day wound up just peachy if you ask me.”

GracieAnn tore into her package, cardboard and paper flying everywhere. “Wait till you see this.” She pulled out a tan-and-pink purse and held it up. “It’s big enough to carry all my stuff. I can even put a pair of shoes in here if need be. Got it on that Home Shopping Network. Watch it at night when I can’t sleep. Spilled caramel topping over my last one. Don’t you just love it?”

GracieAnn slung the purse over her shoulder and grabbed two trays of sugar cookies, one piped in white that looked a lot like the outline of a dead guy on the floor. The other tray held UPS trucks outlined in brown and gold. “Help yourselves, they’re on the house. A little something for bringing me my bag.”

“Practicing up for Halloween?” I selected one of the truck cookies. “It’s not for another two months but these do look great.”

“When I’m happy I bake myself into a stupor. I call this recipe Comeuppance.”

The dead-man outline looked sort of familiar with chocolate swirls for curly hair, blue dots for eyes, and crosshatch for a goatee? There was no mistaking the UPS truck. KiKi and I exchanged looks. Holy mother in heaven! Simon and Chantilly!

“S
OME
people just downright deserve what they get, don’t you agree,” GracieAnn said, passing around the cookies to customers, purse still on her shoulder. She picked up one of the Simon cookies and chomped it right in half, a smile on her lips, crumbs on her apron. “Simon got his just deserts and so did Chantilly since she went and stole Simon away from me.”

Delta Longford hustled through the double swinging kitchen doors, spatula in hand. “GracieAnn, honey, those death-by-chocolate cupcakes you had cooling on the rack are ready to be put out if . . .” Delta stopped, crinkled her nose, and gagged. “What is that dreadful odor? Stinks like dead dog in here. How did that happen?”

“Sewer backup,” GracieAnn offered.

“I do declare this just isn’t my day. The repairman called from the hospital. He went and fell off his own ladder this morning and won’t be getting to fix my oven for weeks. How am I supposed to run a bakery with my main oven out of whack? All the repairmen around here are fixing air conditioners this time of year. I won’t be able to get someone for weeks.”

“If it gets over a hundred today, we can just bake things on the sidewalk.” GracieAnn giggled, then skipped off into the kitchen like a schoolgirl. Delta eyed the cookies, then leaned over the counter and whispered, “At one time GracieAnn was all tore up over Simon. He treated her pitiful bad. Now she’s sort of tickled to her toes the man’s dead and gone. The rotten cuss left her for that UPS girl. ’Course then he left that UPS girl for Waynetta.”

Delta looked me straight in the eye. “Honey, I declare that smell has attached itself to you like white on rice. Don’t take this the wrong way now, but you smell plum terrible.”

KiKi grabbed a cookie. “Did Simon date GracieAnn?”

Delta whispered under the din of customer chatter, her eyes narrowed. “GracieAnn used to work at that Wet Willies bar down on River Street. I wouldn’t say that Simon ever exactly dated GracieAnn, but he sure led her on like there was something going on between them. The way I see it he cozied up to her for free drinks and eats and maybe even an occasional roll in the hay.” Delta let out a weary sigh, then made the sign of the cross at the roll-in-the-hay part. “In the men’s room he wrote
GracieAnn’s a loose woman
, but it didn’t say
loose woman
. He used the
w
-word. Can you imagine such a thing? If you ask me, he got exactly what he had coming to him treating women the way he did.”

The bell over the entrance tinkled, announcing a new customer. “Hello and welcome,” Delta greeted automatically, then stopped and growled deep in her throat. “Tipper!” she snarled, then snapped the spatula in two. “Why are you here? We’re divorced, remember? Bad enough you showed up at the wedding. Go away.”

Tipper Longford was five-ten in lifts, had a handlebar mustache, sideburns, and forever wore a gray Confederate soldier’s hat. Sergeant Longford was totally immersed in reenactments out at Fort Pulaski or anyplace else in Savannah reminiscent of that fearful time of the unfortunate Northern occupation.

“It’s a free country, I have a right to be here if I choose,” Tipper huffed.

“And I’m the one who runs this place so I get to decide.” Delta snatched a raspberry cupcake from behind the counter and flung it at Tipper, hitting him square in the forehead, pink cake and icing sliding down his nose and into his mustache. “Get out.”

“That Waverly wedding cake was a disaster,” Tipper said, scraping icing from his chin. “It was ugly, almost as ugly as you. The roses were all the wrong color and it leaned. Heard tell Waynetta’s refusing to pay and it’s your fault. I thought you should know.”

“It’s none of your business. I run the bakery. You’re too busy fighting the Yankees and whoring around.”

Tipper’s face got all red and he shook his fist at Delta. “Divorcing you is the best thing that ever happened to me.” Sergeant Longford turned on his military boot heel and stomped out of the store leaving traces of raspberry cake in his path.

“Wow,” KiKi whispered. Everyone else in the bakery was dead quiet, the only sound the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. “And here I thought UPS’ing was a boring job.”

I eyed the cupcake clock, then snagged KiKi’s hand. “We have to go,” I said in a loud voice, propelling everyone back to normal. “Have a nice day now, you all.”

KiKi and I took another dead-man cookie for the road and hoofed it out to the truck. KiKi said, “I knew the Delta/Tipper divorce was an ugly affair but it’s even worse than I heard. Maybe that’s why Delta’s taken such a liking to GracieAnn. It gives her something else to think about other than Tipper.”

“That and they both had bad guy experiences.” I charged up Big Brown, the inside hot enough to strip paint. I could turn on the AC but then we’d be trapped inside with the smells from hell. KiKi claimed her spot on the box and covered her nose till I got the truck going and air circulating.

I headed across Broughton and KiKi rotated between gulping breaths of air out the door and studying the handy-dandy delivery information device. “Well, looky here, we have a few more stops to do then we go to the Pirate House. That brightens the day.” KiKi tapped her finger to her lips. “You know, we could take a little time out for lunch and—”

“You just did fried oysters and cookies. You’re going to explode.”

“
We
just did oysters and cookies, and I have to keep up my strength for all this work.”

The deliveries on Habersham and Price were foodless and quick-in/quick-out with keeping comments about smelly sewers to a minimum. Chantilly was right as rain in that no one noticed that a blue-eyed do-it-yourself blonde was delivering packages instead of tall, thin gal with brown eyes and hair. I hung a left onto East Broad and parked in front of the oldest restaurant in Savannah. “You figure out where we go from here,” I said to KiKi while I grabbed the delivery. “I’m not trusting you anywhere near Pirate House pecan chicken and she-crab soup.”

“Sourpuss.”

The lunch crowd hadn’t swarmed the place yet, only a few early stragglers wandering in. “There’s a terrible sewer backup outside,” I offered to the waitress with a blonde side ponytail and Cleopatra-blue eye shadow. I held out the package. “This is for your chef.” When I didn’t let go, the girl gave me a strange look and tugged to get it. “You were at the Waverly wedding,” I added. “I ran into you. Suellen, right?”

“I wasn’t at that there wedding and I have no idea who you ran into in that hallway.” Suellen froze at the mention of hallway . . . which I hadn’t mentioned. “Go away,” she hissed. “Git out right now! I was supposed to be working here last night. You’ll get me fired.” A tear slid down her cheek. “How can Simon be dead? This is terrible.”

“You knew him?”

“Of course I knew him. I mean, a lot of girls around here knew him. I gotta get back to work.” She yanked the package out of my hands and ran off, her ponytail swinging side to side as she trotted down the hall.

I made my way back to the van and climbed in. “Simon’s fan club continues to grow. This is all kind of strange,” I said to KiKi.

“I’m sitting here in a UPS truck that’s hotter than a ten-dollar pistol with my knees to my chin and my brain on meltdown. What strange are we talking about?”

I charged up the van. “Remember yesterday?”

“I’m trying to forget yesterday and I’m adding today to the list.”

“Right before the Simon encounter in the dining room, I told you that I ran into a waitress in the hallway. That same waitress is at the Pirate House and all upset over Simon’s demise. When we ran into each other at the wedding she said something about,
Now what am I going to do?
You think Simon had something going on with this gal, too?”

“I bet ponytail girl’s cute, young, and sexy as all get-out. If that’s the case, I’d say Simon was playing her and Lord only knows how many others. If bed-hopping was an Olympic sport, he’d take the gold.”

“GracieAnn isn’t what I’d call sexy.”

“She was good for free eats and dessert, if you know what I mean. Simon kept all the girls on a string till he came across Waynetta, who is not cute or sexy but who’s loaded, and that trumps everything.” KiKi studied the delivery gizmo. “Jeez Louise. I got a fine idea on how we can make up some time. There’s a package in back we should just lose. Say we couldn’t find it. I figure that will save us a good twenty minutes.”

I hung a right onto State, passing Oglethorpe Square with live oaks and Spanish moss and midmorning strollers hiding from the sun. “Is there a package for the police station back there? You think there’s a law against impersonating a UPS driver?”

“We have a delivery for a Mr. Pillsbury over there on Seventeenth Street. I say we drop it at the corner, floor this here means of transportation, and go like the devil’s after us.” KiKi studied the delivery information. “Except the package is insured for over a thousand dollars and we need a signature. How do you feel about forgery?”

Seventeenth Street was the home of do-rags, not-so-concealed weapons, and a collection of Savannah badasses. I visited this location a few months ago and had no desire to repeat the experience. Taking my dearest auntie to this location was out of the question.

“Tell you what,” I said, stopping for some wayward tourists who probably got one heck of a deal on hotel rooms this time of year. “We’ll do the rest of the deliveries and then I’m dropping you at Clary’s. You can get yourself a nice, cold chocolate milkshake. I’ll make the delivery to Seventeenth Street, then swing by and pick you up.”

Auntie KiKi gave me the slitty-eyed look, her lower lip in a pout. It was never good to get the slitty-eyed look and the lip. I was in for a lecture, and lectures were even worse than Cher-isms, especially in a hot truck. “Are you implying that I’m not up to the challenge?”

Here we go
. “You’re always up for the challenge.”

“You think those bad boys can put one over on me? That I’m old?”

Oh, Lord have mercy, she’s playing the old card
. “No one can put anything over on you, honey.”

“Don’t you
honey
me, and I can darn well handle myself.”

“Of course you can.”

“We come from good stock. Don’t you forget that our great-great granddaddy was General Beauregard Summerside of the Confederate States of America.”

Yeah, and look how that turned out. “You know how golf is the great equalizer around here with everyone playing,” I said, trying to come up with an excuse to keep KiKi from making the delivery. “What if the Seventeenth Street boys are into golf and meet up with Putter and they say they saw his wife, the dance teacher, down their way.” Not that golf wasn’t the equalizer. My guess was that the boys had more important things on their minds like street fights, gun deals, and the occasional carjacking to keep them occupied than how to birdie on the fourteenth hole.

I continued, “If Putter finds out you’re frequenting Seventeenth Street, he’ll have a conniption. Do you really want him huffing and puffing and stomping around the house muttering how you’re a wild woman and whatever is he going to do with you?”

KiKi parked her hand on her hip, left brow arched. “What if someone from that particular area goes and tells your mamma where you’ve been hanging out? Then she’ll be the one huffing and puffing around you.”

“The boys of the hood do not voluntarily chat it up with judges. I’ll be fine. Think of it this way, a UPS truck is neutral territory. It’s like Switzerland. UPS doesn’t choose sides, we just do our thing and all’s well.”

KiKi did a finger drum on the dashboard. “Cher says you have to love spontaneity. It puts you in some strange and wonderful places in life. I should go with you.”

“I don’t think Cher was talking about Seventeenth Street.”

We did the deliveries to the locksmith, then Fabrica, Book Lady Bookstore, Bohemian Gallery, and a raft of other places before I dropped KiKi at Clary’s. When I drove off she had a double chocolate shake in her hand and a plate of fries. If I wasn’t back in fifteen minutes, I knew she’d call the police and I’d be facing Detective Ross . . . again!

I took Oglethorpe and crossed Martin Luther King Drive. The street numbers got lower, the houses closer, yards smaller. Georgia red clay took the place of green lawns, ACs hummed in the windows, keeping the boys inside and the hood empty. Sweat slithered down my back. It had little to do with heat and everything to do with geography.

I killed the engine in front of a grayish clapboard bungalow with used-to-be green shutters, two red crape myrtle trees the Savannah Garden Club would salivate over, and a decent front porch. I hunted for the package, the contraption used for signing, and some guts. I figured this would take one minute, two tops. I knocked and the door that matched the shutters opened to see . . .

“Big Joey?”

My eyes widened; Big Joey’s narrowed. He folded his thick ebony arms across his thicker chest. He gave me a smile sporting a new gold tooth. I considered complimenting his grill but he didn’t look in a complimenting mood.

“White woman. You here again making trouble?”

Big Joey and I got acquainted some months ago, and he helped me out a time or two, mostly when there was something in it for him. I rolled my eyes up to the official hat. “UPS.”