Savannah Breeze (8 page)

The good news
was that Grandmama was out of the hospital and back at their cottage at the retirement home. The bad news was that I was living there too, and with no job to go to, no home of my own, I was slowly going stark, raving bonkers.

The doorbell rang, and I jumped up to get it, happy for any distraction.

“Babe!” Weezie stepped inside and folded me into a hug.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

I gave my head a slight warning shake.

“Who's that at the door?” Grandmama asked, craning her neck. “If it's that kid selling magazines, run him off. I don't need no more magazines.”

“It's me, Weezie, Mrs. Loudermilk,” Weezie said, holding out a small, prettily wrapped package. “I'm sorry I didn't get over to see you in the hospital, but I've been out of town.”

Grandmama smiled angelically up at Weezie, and tore the wrapping from the package, revealing a box of Russell Stover milk chocolates. “Isn't that nice?” she said, patting Weezie's hand. “If I wadn't diabetic, these would sure taste good.”

Weezie's face fell so fast, I had to laugh. “It's okay, Weezie,” I told her. “Granddaddy loves chocolate. He'll take care of these.”

“I forgot,” Weezie said. “I'm so sorry, Mrs. Loudermilk. I'll bring you another present, I promise.”

“Never mind,” I told Weezie. “It's awful hot in here. Let's go outside for a walk.”

“But—” Weezie started to protest.

I took her by the arm and guided her outside. The sun was shining, and the fresh air felt wonderful after days of being cooped up in that apartment with the smell of Granddaddy's Wild Root Oil and Grandmama's creamed tuna on toast, which was all she claimed she could eat after her hospital stay.

I sat on the bumper of my Lexus and leaned back, letting the sun beat down on my face.

“Thank God you came over,” I told Weezie, closing my eyes. “Those two are driving me nuts with their bickering. I love 'em to pieces, but I don't know how much longer I can stay here. That sofa bed has springs sticking up out of it, and the mattress is all mildewy. Granddaddy clears his throat for twenty minutes every morning and night, and it sounds like he's goin' to cough up a big old hairball or something. And she's just as bad. She hums! All the time. Off-key humming. It's like Chinese water torture, Weezie.”

“I know what you mean,” Weezie said. “My daddy jingles the change in his pocket until I think I'll lose my mind. And Mama reads everything out loud. Every story in the paper. Every sign you pass in the car.”

I nodded agreement. “I'm going stir crazy without something to do. I'm seriously thinking about taking a job at McDonald's, just to get away from Ma and Pa Kettle in there.”

“It's bad, I know,” Weezie said, leaning back on the hood beside me. “I talked to Uncle James this morning. He told me about Reddy and everything.”

“Some shit, huh?”

“It sucks,” Weezie said. “You should have called me sooner, BeBe.”

“Nothing you could do,” I said. “Nothing anybody can do until I track the bastard down and get my money back.”

“I've got a little money,” Weezie said. “The shop's doing really well now, and it's all because of you.”

“No,” I said flatly. “Don't even start. I am not taking money from you. I got myself into this, and I'll get myself out.”

“How?” Weezie asked. “James says the company that bought your houses is being a total prick.”

“He'll figure that part out,” I said, sounding more confident than I really felt. “Anyway, I've still got the Breeze Inn.”

“That motel out at Tybee?” Weezie sounded dubious.

“It's a wreck,” I agreed. “But I've checked around. Land prices out there have skyrocketed. The motel sits on more than an acre. The lot alone should bring way over a million.”

“Daniel says there's somebody living there,” Weezie said. “A charter-boat captain. He used to buy fish from him sometimes, for Guale. Harry something?”

“Sorrentino. Harry Sorrentino. He reminds me of Cap'n Crunch,” I said dismissively. “He says he had a deal with the previous owner. Supposed to be the resident manager and caretaker. But he's been living there rent free for three months, and the place is in terrible shape, as far as I can tell. I've told him he can stay until I sell the place, but that shouldn't take long.”

“You're really going to tear it down?” Weezie asked, her voice wistful. I knew that tone of voice. Weezie thinks anything that's old and run-down is a treasure beyond price. “Daniel and I ride our bikes past the Breeze Inn sometimes. It could be awful cute, fixed up. You could do it totally retro, with old rattan furniture—”

“Don't start,” I warned her. “It's just awful, period. Anyway, I don't have the money to fix it up. And I have no interest in Tybee Island. Besides, it's not as if I have a choice. The sooner I sell the Breeze Inn, the sooner I can reopen Guale and get my life back on track.”

“I've always wanted to see what the units look like inside. Hey,” she said, brightening. “Maybe there's some stuff you could salvage
and sell. Like old pedestal sinks or tubs or kitchen cabinets. I've always got customers looking for that kind of stuff.”

“Doubtful,” I said. “I've seen the inside of the manager's unit. It's tacky as hell.”

“We should take a look,” Weezie insisted. “Come on. Let's ride out to Tybee and take a look.”

“Why not?” I said, though still unconvinced. “It's not like I've got anything else to do around here. The visiting nurse should be over in a little while to help Grandmama with her bath and meds. And Granddaddy's glued to the television. What the hell. Let's go.”

We took Weezie's truck, at her insistence. “Just in case there's something worth salvaging now,” she reasoned.

I was in a much better mood on this trip to Tybee. For one thing, the sun was shining and I wasn't locked in that tiny apartment with my crazy grandparents. But mostly, it was good just to be riding shotgun in that beat-up old truck with my best friend, who almost had me believing things were looking up. Weezie popped a disc in the CD player, and we left the windows down, singing along with Sheryl Crow and bopping along without a care in the world.

My good mood lasted only about thirty minutes, the time it took to drive out to Tybee Island, and to pull up to the parking lot at the Breeze Inn, which was all but obliterated from view by a huge new billboard.

 

COMING SOON!

THE SANDCASTLE

14 LUXURY OCEANFRONT VILLAS

Pre-construction Prices Starting at $600,000

Listed Exclusively by Sandcastle Realty Associates

 

My mouth literally hung open in dumb surprise.

“Hey!” Weezie said. “You didn't tell me you'd already made a deal to sell the place.”

“I haven't,” I said, staring up at the sign. I pulled out my cell phone and started to dial the number listed at the bottom of the billboard. “I don't know anything about this.”

The phone rang, and an answering machine picked up. I left a message saying only that it was urgent I talk to somebody about the new Sandcastle villas. Then I called James Foley. While I waited for his assistant, Janet, to put him on the line, Weezie and I got out of the truck and started walking toward the manager's office.

Harry Sorrentino met us halfway there, his eyes blazing.

“Hey!” he shouted at me. “What's the fuckin' idea?”

“Excuse me?” I said. “I'm on the phone here, as you can see.”

“What? Selling off one of your exclusive oceanfront villas? You are some piece of work, lady, you know that?”

Weezie blushed and turned away.

“BeBe?” James came on the line. “Janet says you've got an emergency. What's the problem?”

I covered the phone with my hand and stared Sorrentino down. “Just a minute.”

“James, I'm out at the Breeze Inn. There's a huge billboard out in front of it for something called the Sandcastle. It's offering oceanfront villas starting at $600,000.”

“Christ,” James said softly. “What else does the sign say?”

“Just something about exclusive listings by Sandcastle Realty. There's a phone number. I called it, but I got an answering machine. I left a message, telling them it was urgent that they call me back.”

“Give me the number,” James said. “I'll have Janet look into it. And I'll call you as soon as I know something.”

“How can this happen?” I asked, getting panicky. “I mean, you said I own the place, free and clear. So how can something like this happen?”

“I don't know,” James said. “But calm down. We'll get it straightened out.”

I flipped the phone shut.

Harry Sorrentino stood defiantly in front of me, his arms crossed over his chest. “Well?”

I sighed. “That was my lawyer. There's been some kind of misunderstanding. He's going to figure out what's going on. But I have no idea who these Sandcastle people are, or how they think they can just put up a sign on my property.”

“Right,” Sorrentino said. “Some jackleg just showed up here and nailed up a sign without your permission. After you swore you'd give me plenty of notice and time to find a new place and a new job. You expect me to believe that?”

“It's true,” Weezie said, butting in. “She had no idea this was going to happen. We were just coming out today to look around the place. BeBe hasn't made any kind of deal yet. She wouldn't lie about something like that.”

“The guys that put up that sign told me they expect to start demolition early next week,” Sorrentino said. “How the hell am I going to find a place to live that soon?”

“Listen, Harry,” I said. “Watch my lips. Nobody is tearing anything down until I say so. Just chill out, will you?”

“Easy for you to say,” Sorrentino muttered, turning to walk back toward the motel. “You've got a place to stay. Nobody jerking you around.”

“Like hell,” I said, but softly, under my breath. “Hey,” I called after him.

“What now?” He didn't even turn around.

“I need the keys to the other units. I want to check out the whole property.”

He disappeared inside the manager's office, and a minute later came out with a huge, old-fashioned ring of keys, which he tossed in my direction.

I leaped forward to make the catch, but missed by a country mile. The keys landed in the oyster-shell lot, sending up a puff of sand.

He allowed himself a small smirk of satisfaction at seeing me bend down to pick them up.

“I'm going over to the marina,” Sorrentino said. “Be back this evening. The door to unit seven is warped. You gotta really yank on it. I haven't gotten to the roof on nine and ten yet, so there's probably still some water on the floor in there. Lock up when you leave, okay?”

“Sure thing,” I said through gritted teeth. I wanted to pick up something heavy and chunk it at him, but there wasn't anything handy to throw, and anyway, I hated to give him the satisfaction of seeing my klutziness a second time.

He walked toward the battered station wagon, but paused as he opened the door. “So you really haven't made a deal yet to sell the place?”

This was getting old. “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

He whistled then, and a tiny white ball of fur came hurtling through the open door of the manager's unit. It was a dog, some kind of terrier, but since I'm not an authority on dogs, I couldn't be certain of the breed.

“Come on, Jeeves,” Harry called, stepping away from the driver's-side door to allow the dog to jump into the front seat. He was smiling for the first time since I'd met him. “Let's go for a boat ride.”

“Jeeves?” I turned to Weezie with a raised eyebrow. Sorrentino caught the look, and his smile was gone.

“I happen to like Wodehouse,” he said. “You got a problem with that?”

I had no idea who Wodehouse was, but I wasn't about to admit that to Sorrentino. “I didn't know you had a dog living here.”

“Well, now you do,” he said. And he got into the car, slammed the door, and drove off in a cloud of oyster dust.

Weezie grinned. “He seems nice.”

My hands were covered in dust. I wiped them on the seat of my pants and headed toward the manager's unit. “He's history,” I said. “Just as soon as I sell this place.”

BeBe turned the key
in the lock and leaned against the door. Nothing. “I have a bad feeling about this,” she said, grimacing.

“Let me try,” I said, shoving her aside ever so gently. I turned the key and slammed my hip—much more substantial than hers—against the door. A moment later I was inside—sprawled out on the floor.

“Eeeewww,” BeBe said, sticking her head inside the door. “You're going to have to burn those jeans.”

I stood up and wiped my hands on the seat of my jeans, which were, admittedly, now caked in some kind of unspecified crud, and took a look around.

The room was small, maybe fourteen by sixteen feet. The walls were pine paneled and crusted in sixty-year-old grime. Two big picture windows should have looked out on sand dunes, but they too were coated with dust and dirt. A naked lightbulb swung from a fraying cord in the middle of the ceiling, and underfoot was the gnarliest avocado shag carpet I'd ever seen.

“Come on,” BeBe said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the door. “We're out of here. The only thing that's gonna help this place is a can of kerosene and a big box of matches.”

“Hang on,” I said, yanking her back inside. “Don't be such a pessimist. It's not that bad.”

The far end of the room had a kitchenette, with a green Formica countertop over built-in metal cabinets, an ancient under-the-
counter refrigerator, a tiny stainless-steel sink, even a two-burner stove. An abbreviated countertop had two old faux-bamboo bar stools pulled up to it, their green vinyl seats cracked and patched with duct tape.

“It's an efficiency,” I said, turning the handle of the sink faucet. A groaning noise came forth from the wall, and dark brown water trickled into the sink. “Plumbing works,” I announced.

“Yippee,” BeBe muttered, nevertheless coming over to take a look. “We'll just check you right into Motel Hell.”

I ignored her, flipping the dial on the stove top. Within minutes, the burner glowed orange, and an incredible stink filled the room.

“Jeezo-Pete,” BeBe said, gasping for air. “Turn it off before the place explodes.”

I'd already turned it off, and was trying to crank open the tiny jalousie window in the kitchen area.

“This is great,” I said, fanning in fresh air. “The plumbing works, and the stove works. That means you won't have to look for a replacement. I doubt anybody makes this small a unit anymore. Look at how cute this thing is. All this old chrome and stuff. It looks like something Donna Reed might have cooked on.”

“If Donna Reed lived in a crack house,” BeBe said, shaking her head in disgust. “Honestly, Weezie, look at this place. Not even you can think it's worth saving.”

“This must be the bathroom,” I said, turning toward the doorway on the long wall of the kitchen area.

BeBe clasped her hands over her eyes. Always the drama queen. “I can't look,” she said. “You know I have a weak stomach.”

I switched over to mouth breathing. You never know, you know. The bathroom door swung open on creaky hinges. Rusty water dribbled into a filthy pink porcelain sink. A naked hole in the pink and turquoise tiled floor showed the spot where the commode had once been. The pink bathtub showed multiple rust rings. There was a window above the tub, but it had been boarded over. The walls were
painted a garish hot pink, with turquoise dolphin decals pasted around the ceiling line.

I took a deep breath. “Okay. It has potential. Definite potential.”

BeBe peeked from between her fingers. “Sick.” She groaned, backing away.

I closed the bathroom door behind me and caught up with her outside as she locked up.

“There is no way,” she said, shaking her head as she tried to extricate the key from the lock. “No way in hell this place could ever be made livable. I'm sorry, Weezie, but you saw for yourself. If nothing else, it's a health hazard.”

“It's not,” I insisted, following her across the parking lot. “Let's take a look at the other units.”

“No,” she said, marching toward my truck. “I've seen enough. As soon as your uncle gets this Sandcastle thing straightened out, I'm putting the place on the market.”

I grabbed her arm and spun her around to face me. “It's not that bad,” I insisted. “It's dirty, that's all. Run down. But believe me, this place could be a gold mine.”

“You're nuts,” she said flatly. “I know you know a lot about antiques and stuff like that, but, Weezie, I happen to know a little bit about real estate. And the land under this motel is worth far more than I can ever make by running a motel.”

“Nuh-uh,” I told her. “Look. You know I just got back from a buying trip down in Florida. And there's nothing like this left down there. It's all high-rise hotels and condo towers, all up and down the beaches. Except for one place. One of my antiques dealer friends took me to see it. It's down in Sarasota. Called The High Tide. It's little dinky concrete-block cottages, just like these. And it's not even on the beach. It's across the street. But a couple of gay guys bought it four years ago and fixed it up. Babe, I wish you could see the place. Each of the units is painted a different pastel color—from the street it looks like a box of dinner mints. The units are arranged in kind of a
horseshoe shape, around a little swimming pool, and they've turned the old coffee shop into an espresso bar. It's the hottest place on the beach. Linda, my dealer friend, says they have an eighteen-month waiting list for the units—summer and winter. It's been in
Southern Living,
and they shoot television commercials there all the time.”

“That's Florida,” Bebe pointed out. “Hip. Trendy. This is Tybee. Tacky. Worn-out. The only thing anybody would ever shoot here is one of the roaches.”

“You don't even know Tybee,” I protested. “It's changed. There's stuff happening out here. And the Breeze Inn is unique. There's no other place like it left.”

Bebe leaned up against the bed of my pickup truck and crossed her arms over her chest. “You're not listening, Weezie. I can't do it. I just can't. Not even if I wanted to. I am dead broke. I don't have any money to fix up this place. The only way out of the mess I'm in is if I sell it.” She pushed a strand of blond hair off her forehead and smiled grimly. “And once I've sold it, I'm going after Roy Eugene Moseley.”

“Who?” I opened the door of the truck and got in.

“Roy Eugene Moseley,” she said, hopping up onto the passenger's seat. “Of course, he told me his name was Ryan Edward Millbanks III. Can you believe I fell for that?”

“Reddy,” I said.

“Reddy,” she agreed. “I'm going to hunt him down like a dog. And I'm going to get my money back. And my house. And my granny's pearls. And the painting of my aunt, and every other damn thing he stole from me.”

“Oh-kay,” I said slowly, starting the truck. “Can we go get a drink first, before we start hunting him down? And maybe a sandwich? I didn't have lunch.”

She turned toward me with a sad little smile. “Can't.”

“I'm buying,” I assured her.

Fifteen minutes later we were seated at the bar at the North Beach Grille. The place was nearly deserted, and the guy at the bar was too
busy watching a golf tournament on the wall-mounted television to pay us much attention. I ordered for both of us, crab-cake sandwiches and a couple of iced teas.

BeBe nibbled warily at her sandwich. “Not bad.”

“It's great, and you know it,” I said, taking a forkful of coleslaw. “What's up with you and Tybee? What have you got against it?”

“Nothing,” she said, wiping her fingers on her paper napkin. “I've got nothing against Tybee. I just don't happen to think it's as swell as you do. Is that a sin? You know me. I'm a downtown girl.”

“Living in a white-bread world,” I agreed.

Her cell phone rang then, and she snapped it open.

“Hey, James,” she said. “What did you find out?”

She listened intently. “You're kidding. Steve Arrendale? As in the Steve Arrendale who lives next door to me? You're absolutely sure it's the same guy? Unbelievable. I'll kill him. I really will. Well, no, not literally, but he's going to be sorry he messed with me.”

She listened for a while, swore, peppered my uncle with questions, and then, finally, snapped the phone shut. The bartender gave her an annoyed look, which she pretended not to notice.

I ate my sandwich and waited for her to fill me in. She took a long sip of tea and finally pushed her plate away, her lunch barely touched.

“Sandcastle Realty,” BeBe said, “is Steve Arrendale.”

“Your neighbor,” I said helpfully.

“Ex-neighbor. I no longer own a house on West Jones.”

“This is the same guy who bought your Maybelle Johns painting?”

“Yankee scum,” she said, nodding. “Devious, social-climbing, name-dropping Yankee scum. It turns out that the painting isn't the only thing Reddy sold him.”

“I don't understand,” I said.

“It's complicated. According to your uncle James, this was just another of Reddy's rip-off schemes. He bought the Breeze Inn, at a fire-sale price, using my money. Then, before the ink was even dry on the sales contract from the Breeze Inn, he turned around and sold a
three-month option on the property to Steve Arrendale for three hundred thousand against a three-million dollar purchase price.”

“Why an option?” I asked. “Why not just sell it outright?”

“James doesn't really know,” BeBe said, shrugging. “He thinks maybe Reddy planned to sell options to more than one person, but just didn't get around to it before he skipped town with my money.”

“Is that legal?” I wanted to know.

“Hopefully, not,” BeBe said. “James is going to file an injunction against Arrendale and Sandcastle Realty in superior court. He'll claim fraud, which is what it is, and ask that Arrendale be enjoined from selling units in his so-called town-home community.”

“Which is good, right?”

“James hopes to get a temporary restraining order,” BeBe said. “But it's just that, temporary. He says if the judge grants it, which he probably will, it'll keep Arrendale from selling the units. But James says it also means, for the time being, that I can't sell the Breeze Inn either. Not until the whole thing is ironed out in court.”

I had to duck my head to keep her from seeing my smile.

“Shit,” BeBe said. I looked up quickly. Her eyes were filling with tears.

“Shit,” she said again, dabbing at her eyes with her paper napkin. “I can't believe this is happening to me.”

I reached over to the dispenser and grabbed a thick wad of napkins, which I handed to her.

“I
hate
this,” she said fiercely, swiveling around on the bar stool so that her back was to the bartender, who'd suddenly found our conversation entirely too fascinating. “I can't go back to my grandparents', Weezie. I can't face them.”

“Why not?” I asked. “They don't care if you're broke. They love you, BeBe. They're your family. And they need you too.”

“You don't understand,” she whispered. “It's not just my money that's gone. It's theirs too. Reddy took it. He took all of it.”

“How?” Lorena and Spencer Loudermilk were old-time, old-
money Savannah. They were as close as it came to local aristocracy. They had once owned the ritziest furniture store in town. It had been closed for at least twenty years, but I was sure that their family fortune was intact. BeBe's grandfather might have driven a beat-up old hoopdie of a car, but I knew for a fact that he was a member of the Oglethorpe Club, and that most of the exquisite furniture and paintings in BeBe's West Jones Street house had been on loan to her from her grandparents since their move into an assisted-living cottage.

BeBe bit her lip. “Stupid. I was so goddamned stupid. You know I took care of their finances, right?”

I nodded.

“Granddaddy's not senile. Not at all. He's just gotten so forgetful. And it upsets him when he finds out he forgot to pay a bill or something. He's still so old-fashioned. He can't stand the idea that somebody would think he was a deadbeat. So he had my name put on all their accounts. My brothers couldn't be bothered with that kind of thing. And I was happy to be able to do such a little thing for them. And now…”

She sobbed and buried her head in her hands. The bartender turned away, embarrassed by such a naked display of emotion. I reached over and stroked BeBe's arm, at a loss for words.

She sat up finally and straightened her shoulders. “It's my own fault. After Granddaddy bought that stupid new Lincoln, I tried to get the dealership to take it back. Only they wouldn't. And Grandmama was in the hospital, and she was so sick, and I don't know, it was like everything was so
overwhelming
. And Reddy was right there. He said he'd take care of things, and he did. He made them give us back the old Buick, and they refunded the price of the Lincoln. And he offered to deal with my rental properties, and I let him. He said he wanted to take care of me. You know?”

We exchanged sad, knowing smiles.

“Nobody ever did that for me before,” BeBe said. “I always took care of myself. Even when I was a little girl, Mama said that even
though I was the youngest, I was the only one she could trust to do things the way they ought to be done.”

“You're the strongest woman I know,” I offered. “And the smartest.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “I'm a fraud. Look at me. Three marriages. Twice to the same guy! I never learn. And now it's too late. Reddy didn't miss a trick. After that thing with the car, he knew where I kept my grandparents' bank book. He emptied out their money-market account. Every last dime.”

“Oh, Bebe,” I said, blinking back tears of my own. “I didn't know.”