Iced Chiffon (26 page)

“What’s going on?”

Exasperation pinched her lips into a tight pout. She spoke between clenched teeth. “We can’t talk here in the heart of gossip town, and don’t let that mutt near these suits. I want a fair price for them.”

BW might be a mutt, but he was my mutt. Temptation to shoo Raylene off my property gave way to fundamental nosiness. “What’s this about?”

“To get the Janelle situation straightened out once and for all,” she whispered. “If you want to know, you’ll show up. Don’t be late.”

“Maybe you’ll just shoot me?”

“You’re not worth the trouble and aggravation.” Raylene pranced back to the Escalade and drove off. I went in the house, hung up the suits, and told BW if he had a snarl like Raylene’s, our breaking-and-entering days would be over. I gave him fresh water, and when he refused to move from the fridge, I caved and got him a hot dog. I thanked the repairman, grabbed my purse off the counter, and met KiKi in her driveway.

“Was that Raylene here to do business?” KiKi asked as we drove off toward Sissy’s. “I could tell that she gave you some nice stuff to consign.”

“It was an excuse. What she really wants is to meet up with us at her place, nine sharp. We’re to be discreet.”

“I’ll make sure my life insurance is paid up and leave Putter a note confessing it was me who dinged the front bumper of the Beemer and not him. No need to give Saint
Peter too much ammunition if we happen to meet up tonight.”

“She wants us at her house. We should be okay there.”

“It’s the ‘should be’ part I don’t much care for. You’ve seen that garden of hers. Easy enough to bury a body or two under that fountain you sold her, and no one would be the wiser.”

We headed down Abercorn, and I told KiKi where Sissy lived, on State Street. After knocking on her apartment door with no response, we headed for Good Shepherd Church, on Whitaker. We entered the side door marked “Office.”

A woman in her sixties with poker-straight graying hair and a Peter Pan collar blouse sat at a computer drinking tea, pinky extended. “Hi,” I said as we walked in. “We’re looking for Sissy Collins. Has she come in?”

The faux-brass plaque on the desk said I was talking to Helen Lenox. “Is this about joining the church? We have a mighty fine church here. We’re very active in the community, you know.”

There were a lot of reasons people got struck by lightning, and it seemed to me that lying about joining a church when you had no intention whatsoever of doing so was a guaranteed zapper. “We met Sissy at the family-values rally.”

“Maybe Reverend Franklin can help you; he comes in around nine. I need to run to the church for a moment. If he’s there, I’ll send him right on over.”

“If we could just speak with Sissy?”

Helen put her fingers over her lips as if squelching a sob. “She’s in the back office.” Helen’s voice warbled. “And to tell the truth she may not be the one to talk to at this
particular moment.” A tear inched down Helen’s powdered cheek, and she took a tissue from the crocheted daffodil dispenser on her desk. “It’s so terrible. I’m afraid Sissy won’t be with us much longer. How can this be?”

“She’s dying?” KiKi asked.

“Moving to Charleston.”

In Savannah, those two occurrences were pretty much synonymous. We thanked Helen as she left the office for the church, and KiKi and I headed down the hall to an open door at the end. Sissy was piling belongings in a cardboard box. When she spied us, her face reddened, and her eyes bulged.

“You!” she said and charged at me, waving a statue of Saint Francis surrounded by woodland animals. KiKi snagged Sissy around the middle, rumba style, and held her in place.

“I hate you!” Sissy spluttered, fighting against KiKi, dropping Francis and cracking him into chunks of plaster. “You ruined my life. I know you were the one who told Birdie about me. I saw you and her out in that alley, and now Virgil’s chosen her. Not me. Her! He’s ending it between us. How can he do that?”

Sobbing, Sissy sank into a chair, and I closed the door to the hallway. The only place that carried more gossip than a funeral was a church.

“We’re in love. We’re happy together,” Sissy wailed, burying her head in her hands. “First it was that Janelle person making trouble for us. Virgil told me all about it, and how she wanted money, and how we had to be careful about meeting. She ruined everything. I’m glad Janelle Claiborne’s dead. No one deserved it more.”

“And then you tried to kill me, too.”

Sissy looked up though watery eyes. “What do you mean,
too
?”

“You killed Janelle so your affair with Virgil wouldn’t go public. Neither of you had the money to pay off Janelle, so you did what you had to do for the man you loved. Then you tried to kill me yesterday because you think I told his wife about the two of you, and I was getting close to finding out you were the real killer.”

“I didn’t kill Janelle Claiborne,” Sissy’s voice wobbled. “I didn’t have to because someone did it for me. If you don’t believe me, ask Virgil. We were together at the Hampton Inn the night she was murdered.” Sissy sighed and rolled her eyes skyward as if expecting the clouds to part and angels sing. “Virgil brought me candy and flowers. We danced to Lawrence Welk on the PBS channel.”

“You could have killed Janelle together,” KiKi said, arms folded drill-sergeant style.

“My Virgil would never do such a thing. He’s a saint. He only helps people and is an inspiration to everyone. I think that’s why he’s such a wonderful lover; he’s pure of heart, mind, and spirit.”

My stomach lurched, KiKi stifled a gag, and Sissy buried her face back in her hands, crying for all she was worth. She finally managed, “Are you going to tell the police I tried to run you over?”

“I’m not the only one who thinks you could have killed Janelle,” I said to Sissy. “Franklin as your alibi isn’t much of one, with both of you wanting Janelle out of the way. I wouldn’t leave Savannah and take a job in Charleston just yet. Makes you look even guiltier.”

“All Virgil and I did was fall in love. Two people who couldn’t help themselves. Maybe Virgil and I will both be arrested and convicted. Lovers till the end.”

KiKi and I left Sissy in fantasy land and headed down the hall. “What do you think?” I asked as we stood on the sidewalk outside by the magnolia with blooms bigger than my head.

“I think Franklin should be castrated and do the world a favor, and Sissy needs a shrink and lots of meds. She could have killed Cupcake. She’s delusional and so blinded by love that she’s dangerous to herself and anyone who happens to get in her way. That would be you and Cupcake, in case you were wondering. Sissy’s a big girl and looks strong. She could have managed the body.”

“If she got the car close enough to the back steps of the ‘For Sale’ house, she could have dragged the body out onto the little porch, down a few steps, and right into the trunk.”

KiKi checked her watch. “I need to get back for a salsa lesson.”

“Since I’m up this way, I’m going to get Hollis’s mail and write a note to the post office powers-that–be to hold everything. Piled–up mail is a surefire invite to burglars, and we’ve already had our share. I should have done it sooner. I didn’t think it would take this long to find the killer.”

“They find the bad guys in an hour on TV, and that’s including commercials,” KiKi said. “I’ll have the Batmobile ready at eight thirty tonight. We need to talk strategy.”

“Strategy about what?”

“If Raylene killed Janelle, killing us won’t be a problem. An exit plan is in order, and I don’t mean in a body bag.”

KiKi drove off, and I hoofed it over to the town house.
Using the new key I got from IdaMae, I jabbed it into the lock as a man in khaki pants and a blue polo walked over to me. I looked up into nice eyes, great teeth, and a big smile. Ted Bundy had nice eyes, great teeth, and a big smile.

“Hi?”

“Now, dollface, is that any way to greet a newfound friend?” He gave me a little wink.

“Cinnamon Sugar?”

He tugged at his shirt. “Conway by day, Cinnamon Sugar by night. You’re just the lady I was looking for. I hear you opened a right-nice consignment shop over there on Gaston. Think you might have something for Cinnamon Sugar? Gets real expensive putting together outfits for the stage, and a girl needs to keep things fresh and interesting; you know what I mean?”

“I have a black beaded shawl that just came in.”

“Honey, Cinnamon does not do black.”

Since Cinnamon was probably a size 24 and about 240 on the hoof, my resources were limited. “I took in a rhinestone necklace you might like. There’s a red-sequin purse that might work.”

Conway’s eyes brightened. “Now you’re talking. Cinnamon does well with red, maybe a little turquoise now and then.” Talking about himself in the third person was a bit strange until I considered the fact that Cinnamon Sugar was one person, Conway another.

Conway said, “I’ll stop on by later this week. If you happen to see anything else that catches your eye for Cinnamon, you just put it aside now, you hear?” Conway hitched his chin toward the town house. “Your ex’s, right?”

“I have to get the mail and check plants that I’m destined
to kill. Do you know anything about watering? Too much, too little?”

“Botany major at Ole Miss.”

Conway/Cinnamon Sugar was a person of many talents. “Some things are meant to be,” I said. I turned the key, and Conway followed me inside. I led the way over to the mini jungle by the window.

“Walker told me the place was broken into.” Conway said, gazing around the living room. “This here looks like someone had themselves a holy fit and broke everything in sight. Least they didn’t knock over your planters. These are some expensive palms you have here. Your ex has good taste.”

“My ex doesn’t know a rose from a daisy. These belong to his ex–fiancée.”

“And someone murdered her?” Conway pulled a few spiky brown blades off the palms. “Who would do such a thing?” He held up the blades by the window to get a better look. “Honey, your fronds are stressed.”

I didn’t know if I should make another sign of the cross or offer an apology. “I take it that’s bad?”

“They’re brown, not pink like they should be.” Conway
tsk
ed. “Too much water.”

A six-foot-two guy
tsk
ing like Grandma Summerside over her petunias took me by surprise. Then again, if the situation of brown instead of pink warranted a good
tsk
, size and gender didn’t matter diddly. Conway poked his finger around in the soil, saying something about rotting the roots. I only listened to this part with half a brain, the other half thinking about the palm that was the wrong color.

Before when I’d been in the town house, I’d been obsessed
with finding the blackmail files or picking up horn-rimmed glasses. “Are these the same kind of palms that are out at the Sweet Marsh Country Club?”

Conway laughed, his big, white, toothy smile cutting across his mahogany face. “Cinnamon Sugar is not exactly country-club material, if you get my drift. But these here palms are exotic, and I’m sure the country club gets the very best out there. Raimondo Baldassare has the palms at his nursery, the only place around as far as I know. Raimondo grows things no one else can. Word has it he’s got a new rose coming out this summer that’s just dynamite. That Urston Russell guy who judges the Homes and Gardens Tour is going plumb crazy trying to find out what it is. Raimondo has a green thumb, as they say.”

“And a mighty fine butt.”

“Amen, sister.” Conway stuck the fronds in his pocket, just the way Raimondo did. When he noticed me watching, he said, “You don’t want dead leaves in your soil. Messes with the pH balance. Wait two days to let them dry out, then water the plants good and leave them alone for a few more days. Now, I better be on my way. I’ve got a show to get ready for, and right now I smell like shrimp and scallops. I’m a chef over at the Pink House.”

“Shrimp and tasso ham in cream gravy over cheddar grits is my favorite thing at the Pink House.”

Conway beamed. “That-there’s my dear auntie’s recipe. Like I said, chef Conway by day and best-queen Cinnamon Sugar by night.”

Since it was day, I thanked Conway for the plant advice. I told him I’d hold the necklace and purse for him at the Fox. After he left, I wrote a Dear Mr. Postman/woman note and
Remptied Hollis’s mailbox of catalogs, flyers, and a few bills. I put everything on the kitchen counter so Hollis could take care of business when he got out of jail. By then, he might be ready for a free cruise, a five-dollar pizza, and a hearing aid. I caught the bus, and as it rumbled along, I wondered how Hollis and Janelle could afford exotic plants from Raimondo when they couldn’t afford a security system. They were gone most of the day at the office. It was only common sense to choose security over palm trees.

I’
D FINALLY REMEMBERED TO WIND MY GRAND
father clock, and it bonged ten times, the rich mellow sound filling Cherry House as I opened the door to let myself and customers inside. Business was steady enough to keep me hopping, and in between hops, I wondered what in the world Raylene wanted to talk about tonight. Maybe she’d confess to killing Janelle. Maybe hell would freeze over and winged pigs would fly over Savannah.

I was putting a straw hat tied with a teal scarf on the display table next to a nice Coach bag when IdaMae came in from the direction of the kitchen. She gave me a shy smile and little wave from the hall. “I was up this way showing a bungalow over on Bolton,” she said to me as she walked over to the display. “What a great store you have here.”

“And next time you can use the front door.”

IdaMae got all red in the face. “You know how it is: friends in the back door, guests use the front. After all these years of us knowing one another, it seemed more fitting for me to come on in through the kitchen.”

Bruce Willis trotted from behind the counter, tail
wagging, snout burned in IdaMae’s dress where it shouldn’t be. Dogs have no shame. IdaMae scratched him behind the ears. “Maybe I should get a dog.”

“You sure get along with this big old guy, but Buttercup might have something to say about a canine in the house.”