Demise in Denim Read Online Free PDF Page B

grandma Annabelle was married three times, all to rich old men who wound up out at Bonaventure within two years of saying
I do
. Anna and Bella are legacy gold-diggers.”
    â€œAnd maybe killers,” KiKi chimed in. “I’d say those two are worth a look-see. Besides, and I hate to say it, we haveno one else on our who-killed-Conway list.” KiKi let out a deep sigh, polished off her coffee, snagged a napkin and flicked glaze off her peach blouse, and then checked her watch. “I got a cha-cha lesson with Bernard Thayer at nine. Mr. Savannah Weather is determined to get on
Dancing with the Stars
this year or bust a gut trying. Least he pays double, and I got my eye on a Gucci purse on eBay.”
    â€œAnd I have a Tuesday house to clean,” Mercedes offered. “Then I’m heading over to the Slumber and take care of Conway as soon as the police release the body, and get him gussied up for the layout tomorrow. I owe him since I cleaned his place all these years. It’s going to take a mountain of putty to fill in that there hole between his beady little eyes. Getting shot with a .38 is nasty business, goes in like a BB and comes out like a potato. You should attend the funeral,” Mercedes said to me as KiKi and I stopped eating our last doughnut thanks to the potato comment.
    â€œOdds are good the killer will be there,” Mercedes went on. “He’ll want to be checking out his handiwork and it’s a fine time to step up your anti-Walker campaign if you really think it’ll work. You best be letting Big Joey and the boys in on your plan, and the sooner the better for your own good health, if you get my drift.”
    Mercedes headed off in one direction and KiKi in the other to collect the Beemer. I hitched Old Yeller onto my shoulder, and BW and I started across Broughton toward Seventeenth Street. We crossed MLK and the large perfectly restored Savannah houses gave way to smaller ones with faded paint and AC units perched in front windows, where few residents had the need to lay out and tan as theirs was hereditary.
    This was Big Joey territory, with Pillsbury the doughboy who managed the corporate money as second in command. The Seventeenth Street gang took care of their own and a few others along the way. They had a nice investment portfolio and a terrific health care plan that I could attest to, as they had graciously folded me into their system. I was tolerated in the land of not belonging mostly because I knew Boone and my crime-solving skills bordered on amusement and curiosity. None of that counted for squat today, proven by the fact that I had three of the boys following me, and from the looks on their faces this was not a welcoming committee.
    I stepped up my pace, and the boys did the same. I spotted the two pink myrtle trees that any Savannah gardener worth his blooms would salivate over, trotted up the steps, and knocked on the screen door.
    â€œI hear you be looking for trouble,” Big Joey said when he answered the door. He started to close it, but BW wiggled his way inside, looking for his usual treat as if all were normal.
    â€œIt’s not what you think,” I blurted to Big Joey and the boys. “I’m trying to find Conway’s killer by acting like I want to get even with Boone for messing me in over my divorce. Here’s my plan: If I give the impression I’m anti-Boone, I’ll find others who have it in for him and maybe I’ll find out who set him up. Got any ideas?”
    Big Joey stepped out onto the porch as my escorts closed in from the back. I felt like an Oreo cookie.
    â€œYou took his car,” Big Joey growled.
    â€œHey, he took my new pink scooter.”
    This brought smiles all around, and the ominous atmosphere shattered. Guess pink-scooter topics of conversation didn’t come up all that often in the hood. Big Joey folded his muscled ebony arms across his chest and leaned against the porch post.