Demise in Denim by Duffy Brown Read Free Book Online

man was, but I thought you needed to know we got ourselves another suspect. I mean, if the guy’s ready to kill Conway when he’s dead, I figure he could have done the deed when Conway was up and kicking. There’s pissed off, and then there’s really and truly pissed off, and stabber guy fits the second category, wanting to make sure the deed is done for real.”
    Mercedes did the impatient shuffle as I rang up a sale for the strappy sandals I’d had my eye on and the cute cross-body bag out of the display window. She waited for the woman to leave, then said to me, “I bet dollars to doughnuts that the stabbing guy will be at Conway’s funeral. You truly do need to get there and bring Miss KiKi with you; she knows everyone.”
    â€œI hate funerals.”
    â€œHoney”—Mercedes put her arm around me—“the only ones who like funerals are those who inherit the loot, the florists, and the funeral director. But the way I see it, at least we got ourselves another suspect.”
    Mercedes hustled herself off to putty Conway back together, and three customers brought clothes in to consign. I went through the stacks, selected which items worked for the store, and then tagged and priced them and put them on the racks. By one o’clock I’d sold three skirts, two jackets,four pairs of shoes, and a really ugly coat that I thought I’d never get rid of. I also sold three black dresses thanks to Conway’s funeral. Maybe I needed to rethink my view on funerals; they weren’t so bad after all.
    I really could do with a mannequin, I decided as I assembled a new window display of skinny jeans, white sweater, and straw hat. A mannequin would look better than the hangers in the window, that’s for sure. I hung the clothes, adding a cute chair and table to complete the display look as BW ambled out the door to greet Chantilly hurrying up the walk.
    Chantilly was a true friend and once-upon-a-time UPS driver. She was now chief cook and bottle washer over at Cuisine by Rachelle, she made the best mac and cheese on earth, and she was engaged to Pillsbury, the Seventeenth Street gang doughboy. That meant she had someone to cuddle up to at night and to invest her hard-earned money, and there was always good food in the house. Chantilly was one fine cook.
    â€œHere’s that mac and cheese you ordered for lunch,” Chantilly said to me, setting a white paper bag on the counter. She shuffled back to the door, cutting her eyes in one direction, then the other.
    â€œOrdered?”
    â€œJust open the blasted bag.”
    â€œBut I didn’t—”
    â€œEat!”
    When it came to mac and cheese I didn’t have to be coaxed, like with broccoli and carrots. “Looking for someone?” I asked, since Chantilly was still standing at the door.
    The cops
, she mouthed. Okay, this was getting curiouserand curiouser. I opened the bag, pulled out a spork and cup, pried off the lid, and dug into the best three-cheese combo in the city. It even had those little toasted breadcrumbs sprinkled on top and—
    â€œNapkin!” Chantilly yelped, pointing to the bag. “You need a napkin. Your mamma would have a hissy if she saw you not using your napkin!”
    Three customers and I stared at Chantilly as if she’d clearly lost her ever-loving mind over a napkin. The South was all about manners, but this was over-the-top etiquette even for Savannah. I put down the container and carefully plucked the napkin from the bag. I did a little shake to fluff it open, and right there in the middle was writing.
Stay away from Dixon, stay out of my house, no eating in the car.
    â€œA mutual mac-and-cheese lover,” Chantilly offered, still gazing out the door.
    â€œAnd you’re worried that someone might be onto your message service?”
    â€œCrossed my mind. I think you’re supposed to take the napkin seriously.”
    I jabbed my spork at a big