Killer Market

I shoved my bag under the edge of the table and gave her a hug.

She hugged me back, then held me at arm’s length to assess time’s changes. My Jacki Sotelli badge made her laugh. “Newark? You?”

“It’s a long story,” I said, but my hopes began an upward rise as I did my own assessment: expensive haircut, manicured nails, the blue-enameled gold collar that topped a deceptively simple green shift. This was not Kmart chic.

According to her name tag, she was now the executive director of the Southern Retail Furnishings Alliance. I had never heard of the Southern Retail Furnishings Alliance, but surely its executive director would have an extra bed she could offer to a former classmate?

Dixie shook her head sympathetically as I gave her an abbreviated version of why I was in town and how I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to sleep in my car beside the courthouse.

“Judge? God, I’m so impressed! But I can’t believe they’d let you come over here during Market week without a room reservation. I’d invite you to stay with me if I didn’t already have a decorina friend from California on my couch. My granddaughter’s sharing with me, and my son-in-law has the guest room. When he bothers to come home,” she added with a touch of bitterness that made me wonder if said son-in-law had a roving eye.

“Your daughter’s not with them?” I asked.

Raw, naked pain shafted across her face and I saw the lines of age and grief that had, till then, been hidden beneath her skillful makeup.

“Evelyn’s dead,” she said bluntly. “She took a bad fall. A year ago last October. The baby she was carrying died, too.”

I was stunned. “Oh, Dixie! How awful!”

“Yeah,” she agreed bleakly. Then she took a deep breath, smoothed her gleaming hair, and visibly collected herself. “So you need a bed, huh?” Her voice became bright and cheerful again. “I bet I know where there’s one going begging.”

“That’s okay.” Suddenly I was feeling gauche for presuming upon what really was a very slender friendship. “Mrs. Jernigan here knows someone.”

I turned to that lady, who was adding several large wedges of jalapeno cornbread to her tote bag. The gauzy green scarf had slipped from her hair and now trailed from her shoulders.

“Mrs. Jernigan—”

She completed her raid on the table with a couple of brownies, then looked up at me with a cold eye and in that distinctive, husky voice, said, “My name is Hadley Jones Edminston. I cannot fathom why all of you continue to address me incorrectly when I have never met any of you.”

With that, she crushed her lavender straw hat down squarely on her head, gathered up her bags and stalked away. The Furniture/Today reporter hurried after her and I was left to stare blankly at Dixie Babcock and J.J. Patterson, who seemed to know each other.

Dixie’s brown eyes widened as she gazed after Mrs. Jernigan. “That voice—was that Savannah?”

Patterson nodded. “I couldn’t believe it either at first I had no idea she was back in town.”

But Dixie was still processing what she’d just seen. “Savannah with gray hair? In a dress? Wearing color?”

“Who’s Savannah?” I asked. “And what’s the big deal about color?”

Patterson put out his big hand. “Jay Patterson, Ms. Sotelli. We didn’t get a chance to talk before, but—”

I took his hand as Dixie said, “Come on, Jay. Does she sound anything like a Sotelli from Newark?”

“Well—”

“This is Deborah Knott, an old friend from law school. She’s a district court judge now. Sitting here for a week.“

He grinned. “So where’d you steal that badge, Judge?”

“You accuse a judge of theft?” I bantered. “Actually, Mrs. Jernigan, or whatever her name is, gave it to me.”

“Aha!” said Dixie. “Receiving stolen goods. That’s even more serious.”

“You be serious,” I said. “Who’s Savannah What’s-her-name?”

“Savannah’s all I ever heard.” She looked at Patterson, who nodded.

“Me, too. Hell, when she did her first catalog for us and our payroll department head kept trying to get a full name for the W-2 forms, she told him to draw her check to S.A. Vannah if it’d make him happy, ’cause that was all he was getting.”

“She was the best designer and stylist in the business,” said Dixie, “and she did everything with panache. Dressed only in black—black shoes, black stockings, black hats, black mink, onyx cigarette holder. Drove black Porsches.”

“Great jewelry though,” said Patterson, helping himself to a wedge of the jalapeno cornbread from the sadly depleted platter.

“The only color she wore,” agreed Dixie. “If you don’t count the bright red lipstick and red nail polish. Splashy necklaces of coral, topazes, turquoise, jade and cinnabar. Unusual cloisonne brooches. I never saw her in a dress either. It was always slacks or leggings or tights. She said skirts made her legs look too short.”

“Short? She had great legs,” said Patterson.