Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) Read Free Page A

Patrick, we’re doomed. I wonder if Savannah has one of those spin doctor people who make catastrophes seem like Christmas morning with presents under the tree.” Deep in thought KiKi tapped the tips of her fingers together. “Maybe we can reason with Scumbucket.”
    I gave her a
get real
look.
    “What about Valentine? He’s Scumbucket’s campaign manager. We need to go in that there headquarters and make Delray Valentine realize his candidate sprawled on the ground makes him look weak and pitiful.”
    “Or Valentine will throw us out.”
    “There is that.” Minutes then more minutes rolled by, a brain-numbing migraine pooling behind my eyes. “I got nothing,” KiKi finally said, opening the car door. “You’ll just have to wing it once we get inside.”
    “Me?”
    “You flunked phone calls. Think of this as redemption.”
    We crossed the street, people entering and exiting Scumbucket’s headquarters, the inside bustling with campaign hoopla, “Happy Days Are Here Again” warbling in the background. I didn’t see Money-Honey or Valentine, but a twentysomething blonde in a short pink skirt and a white sweater with a cute little pink poodle pin gave KiKi one of those
where do I know you from
looks. I stuck an “Elect Kip Seymour” button on KiKi and grabbed a hat for me along with a sticky bun, complete with gooey pecans.
    “Camouflage,” I mumbled to KiKi around a mouthful of total goodness. One of the workers told us Seymour was in his office down the hall, working on a speech, and he didn’t want to be disturbed no matter what. We waited a few minutes then headed that way.
    “Should we knock?” I asked KiKi when we got to the closed door. In response she turned the knob and strolled right in to the sunlit office full of metal chairs, a desk cluttered with flyers and flags, but no Seymour.
    “Look at this.” I pointed at a line of creepy life-size cardboard stand-up posters against the far wall. “Here we have sophisticated Seymour in a blue suit and big smile, casual Seymour in khakis and a polo and doing the thumbs-up we win gesture, workingman Seymour with a tool belt and hard hat, debonair Seymour in fancy tux complete with Georgia flag lapel pin and—”
    “Dead as a doornail Seymour right here on the floor next to my big toe.” KiKi pointed behind the desk, her cheeks fading to pasty white.
    “Dear God in heaven, it
is
Scumbucket!” I said peering over KiKi’s shoulder. I made the sign of the cross for maligning the dead and braced for a lightning bolt to strike.
    KiKi collapsed down in Scumbucket’s desk chair and reached for a half-empty glass by the phone. “Looks like Gloria went with the honey bourbon softening up approach on the old fart, for all the good it did. I sure could use a belt of hooch right now myself.”
    “You’ll get Scumbucket cooties.”
    KiKi snapped back her hand, and I picked a paper off the desk. “Look at this, it’s Scumbucket’s speech, and it’s all about Mamma ruining Savannah’s restaurant economy, a follow-up to his ad, no doubt.”
    The shock of Scumbucket dead faded away and being plain old madder than a wet hen took its place. I grabbed the receiver and jabbed 911. “Kip Seymour is dead as a frog on the four-lane over here at his campaign headquarters on Bull Street,” I said to dispatch. “No, this isn’t a joke. He’s just lying there staring at the carpet and not in a gee-ain’t-this-a-nice-carpet way. I didn’t kill him, tempting as it might be, the no-good piece of crud.”
    KiKi rolled her eyes so far back she nearly fell off the chair. Guess I should have left out the crud part. I gave my name and KiKi’s, getting another auntie eye roll.
    “Did you have to go and drag me into this? Putter will hear about it and give me one of his what-have-you-gone-and-done-now lectures and want me to call him every hour telling him where I am.”
    “You’re sitting at Seymour’s desk. He’s dead right in front of you. You’re into this