“He’s not wrong,” Rosemarie said, and then belched lightly. “I think I might throw up.” She looked a little pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on her upper lip.
“She’s got the cake sweats,” Scarlet said. “You’ve got to know your limits. You’re a grown woman.”
“I just need some water,” Rosemarie said.
My mother got up and brought her back a bottle of water, and everyone moved their chairs back a few inches so as not to be in the line of fire or get in her way if she needed to run to the bathroom.
“Did you find anything in his phone records?” I asked.
“Nothing I knew what to do with,” she said. “I’ve got numbers, but I don’t know who they belong to or what he was texting about. I wrote them down,” she said, passing me a list on a torn piece of notebook paper. “I also checked out the credit card statements and found the hotel in Miami, and then I found Angelica’s phone number on a napkin in his pocket.”
“Where was the napkin from?” I asked.
“The Four Seasons,” she said. “He’s certainly never taken me to the Four Seasons, but I guess he can only splurge the fancy stuff for his whore.”
“Why don’t you give me everything you’ve found,” I said. “Can you log online and print off his log of phone calls and texts? I can do a reverse search and see if I can find out who they belong to. Are you going to be okay here by yourself?”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “I’m armed and sometimes I like being by myself. I can sit around in my underwear and drink wine whenever I want to. Retired life is the best. Everyone should do it. But sometimes I like to have intelligent conversations and sex. That’s the whole point of marriage—having someone readily available for both at a moment’s notice.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said.
Chapter Five
Rosemarie and Suzanne had a little too much amaretto, so I ended up driving the penis cupcake van back to Savannah. Rosemarie and Suzanne had fallen asleep in the back seat almost as soon as we’d left my mother’s. Scarlet sat in the front with me, and she gossiped about the families who’d lived at almost every house we passed.
“That was Evelyn Pickering’s house,” Scarlet said, pointing to the old white Victorian hidden from the road by a bunch of trees. “Men used to shimmy right up that drain spout to her bedroom while her husband was away at war. We called her Skeevy Evie. And when Milton came back after he’d been wounded at Normandy, I guess she forgot to send out a memo to her men, because one night Clyde Barker climbed up and Milton shot him right in the face.”
“Amazing,” I said, slowing the car down as we passed the house. I’d heard the story a million times since I was a kid, but I’d always been fascinated by the house. There was a presence there, and everyone could feel it.
“Didn’t even go to jail,” Scarlet added. “I tell you, those were the good old days. Somebody done you wrong, you just pop a cap in their ass and bring a company salad to the wake. Sometimes you make a move on the widow. There weren’t as many fish in the sea back then either.”
I’d always been fascinated by Scarlet’s stories of the war years. As kids Phoebe and I had sat at her feet, shelling peas and listening to her, and I’d always felt like I’d been born in the wrong generation. I loved the music, the clothes, and the fierce determination to live the American dream.
“Let’s get a move on,” Scarlet said. “I’m late for my nap.”
“You’ve had two naps since we left the house this morning,” I said.
“Yeah, but this is my afternoon nap,” she said. “My afternoon nap is the good one because I get to have a sidecar beforehand.”
The rain had steadily picked up, so I wasn’t too self-conscious about driving around in the van. It’s not like anyone was standing outside to witness.
I dropped Suzanne and Rosemarie back at the cake shop, and then I ran to get the Audi from where I’d parked so I could swing around and pick up Scarlet.
It wasn’t yet three o’clock, and I figured Nick would be tied up with his homicide for a good while longer. That gave Scarlet plenty of time for her nap and me plenty of time to run a cursory background check.
I’d only planned to drive by the detective agency on the way home, but it seemed like a sign when I saw the empty parking space right in front.
“Oh, good timing,” Scarlet said. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom. That celery is running right through me. I need to unloose this caboose, if you know what I mean.”
“I got it,” I said and sighed. I got out of the car and went around to help Scarlet out, but she was already halfway out the door and onto the sidewalk.
“My friend Ernie gets to poop in one of those bags,” she said. “Seems pretty convenient to me. Sometimes I wish I could poop in a bag, but I’ve got pipes of steel.”
I wondered if I’d ever get to the age where I felt comfortable talking about my bowels. I was thinking that would be a negative.
I took Scarlet by the elbow and locked the door of the car. Rain dripped off the hood of my raincoat and I stared at the front of the building where I’d had some of the best memories of my life. I thought the detective agency would look different somehow. But it was the same.
Kate had discreetly put the agency up for sale right around the time of my wedding, but there weren’t a lot of qualified buyers who could afford the building, the staff, and uphold the reputation that came with the McClean Detective
