Iced Chiffon (16 page)

“What about the cheesecake?”

“Been thinking about that, too.”

“How’s the foot?”

“It’ll be much better once I have crab cakes and cheesecake in me. Notice how all good things have the word
cake
in them—except fruitcake. Even Paula Deen doesn’t do fruitcake.”

Fifteen minutes and one hair-raising ride later, KiKi
squealed into the Sweet Marsh Country Club parking lot, tossed the valet her keys along with a five-buck tip, then limped her way up the steps to the club restaurant and bar.

Sweet Marsh was one of the oldest country clubs in Savannah. It was hard to get into and easy to get kicked out of. You needed sponsors to gain admittance, social standing to be accepted, and a hefty stock portfolio over at Goodman, Sears and Young if you intended to stay around for a while. Or you could inherit membership from a dead relative the way Hollis had, though I suspected being in jail and deprived of a portfolio would have him kicked to the curb soon enough.

I wasn’t in the mood for crab, mostly because I couldn’t afford crab, and I hated to keep sponging off KiKi and Putter. I lied to KiKi and said I wasn’t hungry. I told her I’d ask around about Baxter and meet up with her later. I pilfered cheese and crackers from the bar area, which was done up in white wicker, ceiling fans, and big palms. This appeased my growling stomach for the moment, and it gave me a chance to ask the bartender if Baxter Armstrong was at the club today. The bartender didn’t know Baxter and neither did two of the servers.

If Baxter played as much golf here as Trellie said he did, then these folks would know him really well. Golf wasn’t just about driving carts and hitting little dimpled balls over short grass. It was about camaraderie, being part of the
in
crowd. Golf was something spiritual, talked about in reverent tones over drinks or cussed about in loud voices, depending how your game went on a particular day. I figured golf was to guys what shopping and doing lunch was to women.

I spotted Dinah Corwin standing in the stone and
mahogany lobby, wearing the dress she’d bought at the Fox. She chatted with some of the club regulars, who were all decked out in perfect spring dinner attire. No white just yet. That didn’t come till after Memorial Day, then got tucked away again after Labor Day. Rules were rules. The club was clearly a place to see and be seen, especially on crab-cake night.

Dinah gave me a little wave, then headed in my direction. “We’ll I’ll be, I didn’t know you were a member here,” she said, looking much better than when I last saw her at the Fox.

“I’m a guest, but you seem to be fitting in right well.”

Dinah gazed around at the milling crowd. “Now maybe I do, but it sure wasn’t that way when Janelle was alive and sucking air.” Dinah leaned close. “When I first got here, no one would give me an interview for my TV spot. Janelle had spread the word that I had a bad reputation back in Atlanta. That I made people look stupid on TV and did bad interviews. My boss at WAGA was ready to fire me, until Urston and Raylene stepped up, bless their hearts. I don’t think they liked Janelle any more than I did, and going against her recommendation worked just fine and dandy with them. It sure saved the day for me, I can tell you that.”

If Raylene and Urston helped Dinah out, then there was a good chance Baxter did too
if
Janelle was blackmailing him. No matter what form it took, revenge was always sweet. “What about Baxter Armstrong?” I asked Dinah. “I have the feeling he didn’t care much for Janelle.”

“Oh, that is so true. I forgot about Baxter. He’s kind of the strong silent type—you know what I mean. Once when we were talking here at the club after dinner, Janelle came over, and Baxter just got right up and left, as if she had the
plague or something. Trellie and I didn’t know what to make of it.” Dinah checked her watch. “I have an interview with the mayor in the club’s rose garden at sunset; it should be positively lovely if I do say so. This series I’m shooting here in Savannah will be great for my ratings. Janelle’s demise came at the best possible time. It put her under a cloud of suspicion, and the ugly rumors she spread about me don’t matter now. I have more interviews than I know what to do with. I better find my cameraman and get things set up for the mayor.”

This was one of those times when I was right and wanted to be wrong. None of the employees at the club knew Baxter, and that meant he wasn’t at the club playing golf. Baxter gave Dinah an interview, meaning he knew Janelle for the evil person she was. It seemed to me that Cupcake was blackmailing Baxter because she had evidence he was sleeping around. She probably threatened to tell Trellie, and if Trellie found out, she’d divorce Baxter. That meant bye-bye expensive wardrobe, designer salons, and red Porsche convertible.

I took a second swing around the cheese and cracker tray, then hid behind a row of potted ferns to scarf down my dinner. Most people took one dainty cube of cheese to have with their wine, not a plateful piled high. I bit a chunk of cheddar off a toothpick with red plastic ruffles on the end and noticed a small plaque in the spiky pink fern pot that said “Tillandsia Fasciculata—Plants maintained by Raimondo Baldassare.” I didn’t envy Raimondo taking care of greenery with points, even if they were pretty and pink. Raimondo was scheduled to start work on Uncle Putter’s backyard sometime this summer. I smiled in anticipation. Lord knows
I couldn’t afford Raimondo, but I’d get the benefit of watching the Italian hunk run around KiKi’s yard, digging, pruning, sweating, and—

“Why are you grinning like a lovesick cow?” Boone asked. I jumped and yelped in surprise, dropping my little plastic plate of goodies. Heat inched up my neck and settled in my cheeks at being caught by Walker Boone, eating cheese behind a potted plant.

“Hungry?”

I bent down and scooped up the mess. “This was dinner.”

Boone bent down beside me. “Let me buy you a real dinner.”

I had a dream where I was naked, running down Bay Street, and far less embarrassed than I was at this moment. “What do you want? Why are you here? How did you get into this place?”

“I’m a member.”

“You have on jeans; they never let people in here with jeans.”

Instead of an answer, we stood, and Boone gave me a little shrug along with a smug smile. He took my plate, handed it off to a passing waiter, and nudged me back into the nook of palms. “I just had an interesting talk with your auntie KiKi. We were watching the mayor’s interview. Nice woman, your auntie. She cares a great deal about you. She wants the best for you.”

Uh–oh
. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach where this little speech about the virtues of KiKi was headed and it was all downhill.

“Imagine my surprise,” Boone pushed on, his voice low,
“to find out that you and I are working together. KiKi said you were meeting with me about who the real killer is and that you have some good leads.” Boone stuffed his hands in his jean pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Want to tell me about those great ideas?”

“At hundreds of dollars an hour, I can’t afford to tell you anything. I’ll take my chances finding the killer on my own, thank you very much.”

“Unless the killer finds you first. My guess is that’s what the mugger in the alley was all about. Charlton Street isn’t exactly a hotbed of burglars and thieves around here. You getting dragged into the alley smacks of a warning to back off whatever you’re doing. Maybe you should listen.”

“Would you listen?”

“I’m not you.” Boone’s cell chirped, and he answered it, his unreadable lawyer face firmly in place. He was good at that except for those times when his eyes got all mysterious or his hands balled into fists at his side like they were doing now. Something was up in lawyer-land, and if it got a reaction from Boone, it was serious.

“What?” I asked as he disconnected.

“That was the police. Hollis’s town house was broken into. Someone picked the lock, and the place is turned upside down. The caretaker saw a flashlight darting around inside and called the cops.”

“My guess is it’s somebody looking for Janelle’s blackmail information.”

Boone arched a surprised brow. “Information?”

“Incriminating pictures, letters, tapes, whatever. Any blackmailer worth two cents has that info stashed somewhere. There must be a lot of people looking for that stuff.
If it falls into the wrong hands, the people being blackmailed keep getting hit up for money, even with Janelle out of the picture. The killer would want to make sure he’s not discovered. I bet that’s some interesting pile of information.”

Boone peered at me hard. “You’re like a ten-year-old driving a Ferrari. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. You’re digging up critical information, and people aren’t going to sit by and watch you make mincemeat of their lives. If just one of the people being blackmailed realizes you’re looking for dirt on him—or her—he will want to stop you any way he can. Get out of this now, Reagan, before it’s too late. Tell me what you know, and I’ll take it from here.”

“You think I know things you don’t?”

“You live between the dancing kudzu vine and the gossip girls. Rumors aren’t exactly hard evidence, but it’s a good place to start looking around.” Boone folded his arms. “We can work something out.”

“Oh yeah, like with my divorce? I remember how that worked out. You got all the money; I got all the grief. This is not divorce part two. I’ll see you at the town house.”

“Why do you want to go to the town house anyway? What do you think you’ll find? If the intruder got what he was after, the deed is done.”

“And if he didn’t, that something is still there. I’m not giving up, Boone,” I said, keeping my voice low so as not to draw attention. “Someone is after whatever Janelle had on him. The question is whether this person found what he was looking for. If the dirt isn’t at the town house, where is it? A safe-deposit box? At Hollis’s office? Buried out at Bonaventure Cemetery next to the statue of little Gracie?”

“Keep this up, and that’s were I’m going to find you.”

“Not if you wind up there first. You’re not Superman, you know.” His brow arched, suggesting some would disagree. My guess is they were all women. “If someone is upset with me digging around, they feel the same way about you.”

“But I’m not the one who got dragged into the alley.” Boone took the steps out to the parking lot. He was on his way to the town house, and I probably wouldn’t get there for another hour. I needed to make up an excuse to KiKi for not hanging around and then find a ride. I wondered when the crime lab would be done with Hollis’s Lexus; I could really use that Lexus. Gas for it was another problem.

T
WO HOURS LATER
, I
TRUDGED UP THE SIDEWALK TO
Hollis’s town house, on East Macon. I’d hitched a ride with one of the beverage distributors who’d made an emergency run out to the club with more Moon River beer. It was an unpardonable sin to run out of local brews, and Moon River was the beer of choice no matter if you were drinking out at the country club or at Wet Willies down on River Street.

A steady breeze kicked up from the east; a rainstorm was brewing off the coast. We’d have a downpour by morning. The air felt chilly with the last touch of winter, the dampness seeping into my bones and making me shiver. Linen looked great in the day but didn’t offer much warmth at night. There were no cop cars or Boone’s ’57 Chevy parked out front, and 3080 East Macon wasn’t decorated with crime-scene tape. Breaking and entering was small potatoes in the smorgasbord of Savannah crimes.

I took the bricked walkway, flanked by boxwoods,
azaleas, and a blooming pink dogwood. I fumbled around in Old Yeller for Hollis’s keys, which I carried with me for watering purposes.

“I’m the caretaker around here. Can I help you?” said an unfriendly voice behind me.

I turned to face a tall, youngish man who apparently didn’t see the necessity of shaving but sure did see the necessity of working out. The guy was ripped. He gripped a crowbar in his left hand and a Budweiser in the other. Not a great mix from my viewpoint.

“This is my ex’s town house,” I said to him in a sweet little-girl voice. “I’m sure you know it was broken into. With Hollis being in jail and all, I was checking to see if anything was missing.”

“You mean besides his fiancée? Do you think he killed her? She sure was some hot babe—I’ll tell you that.” Ripped guy gave me the male once-over that said I wasn’t a hot babe, but I must have looked harmless because he unlocked the door.

“Thanks.”

“That attorney guy was here earlier,” the caretaker said as he pushed open the door. “He told me if a woman with striped hair showed up to let her in. That’s you. Not many women with striped hair. Said if I didn’t let you in, you’d break a window. I’ve got enough to do around here without fixing windows. Lock up when you’re done, and don’t break anything else.”

The place was dark, except for streetlights slipping through the shades. Feeling along the wall, I flipped the switch, and two broken lamps on the floor came to life. A security box with a keypad sat next to the bank of light
switches in the entrance hall. Why didn’t the intruder get caught by that? Then I considered the fifty-bucks-a-month activation fee that went with the system, and the fact that Hollis was strapped for money.

I wondered if Hollis was too strapped to have a cleaning lady. The place was a holy mess. Somebody was sure after something, with drawers upended, cabinets overturned, cushions sliced open, and stuffing strewn everywhere. Molting season at a chicken farm, not that I’d ever been to a chicken farm, but I bet this was it, only with better furnishings. A short hall led past a laundry room to the master bedroom, which was in even worse condition, with a butchered mattress, chairs the same, a ripped-apart area rug, and overturned nightstands.

The walk–in closet was untouched and had one of those built–in systems with drawers, shelves, and racks. Either the intruder found what he was looking for or he was interrupted. I recognized the two wood crates on the floor across the back as Uncle Cletus’s gun collection. On the right side of the closet, Hollis’s suits hung on wood hangers, all facing the same direction, an inch and a half apart. His shoes were perfectly polished and poised with the right one first, then the left; belts in neat coils; shirts fresh and folded from the cleaners with only the first two buttons fastened. During our married years, Hollis spent hours in his closet. The term
inner sanctum
took on a whole new meaning.