Dead Man Walker by Duffy Brown Page B

huddled us together. “Not to be tooting my own horn, you see, but I think the culprit in all this happens to be a wannabe customer of mine. Ya see, the oldsters around here hire me on to clean their places knowing that I always spiff them up right nice when their time comes to meet their Maker. It’s an extra little perk I throw in for treating me good while they’re still kicking. The word’s gotten out that I offer up this bonus. Been right good for business I’ll tell you that. But I only got so many cleaning spots available bein’ that I work over there at the Slumber.”
    The two uniforms exchanged
you gotta be kidding me
looks and Ross asked, “Let me see if I got this right, you’re saying that someone would kill to get you to clean their house so you’d make them look good at their funeral?”
    â€œOh, honey.” Mercedes tisked. “Did you ever see what the wrong foundation does to the dearly departed under those god-awful funeral home lights? Why Fanny Elkins was the color of a toad last week at her lay-out and Janis Wilkes wound up right there on YouTube, casket and all, captioned ‘It ain’t easy being green.’”
    Nodding, Reagan held out her hands. “Word on the kudzu vine is that Jeanette Laylaw’s the one who pushed Henry Wentworth down the steps at St. John’s Church last month because she was next on your house-cleaning list.”
    â€œSee,” Mercedes nodded. “What did I tell you? Old Henry busted his hip big-time, went straight into assisted living, and Jeanette called me that very night to claim his spot.”
    Ross massaged her forehead. “This is about makeup?”
    Mercedes harrumphed. “This is about a person’s last big splash before they get tossed in the ground and have dirt dumped on ’em.”
    Ross glanced back at the corpse. “You’re saying Adkins was planning on dying soon? Is that why he hired you?”
    Mercedes shook her head. “He liked that I knew how to keep my mouth shut, and that I baked the best peach-and-blueberry pie here in Savannah.”
    The door opened downstairs and Ross said, “Well, that’ll be the meat wagon.” She took Mercedes’s arm. “You can fill me in on the particulars down at the station.”
    Mercedes paled and, considering her natural skin tone, that was going some. She turned to me. “If you’re looking to have yourself a clean house and fresh laundry tomorrow keep in mind that I’m in need of some legal help here.”
    The uniforms escorted Mercedes down the steps and into the back of a cruiser, Ross filled forensics in on the prize waiting for them upstairs, and I followed Reagan out to the sidewalk. We stood together under the branches of the huge live oaks on Chippewa Square stretching clear across the street, offering shade against the morning sun. Reagan shifted from foot to foot then flipped her hair, studying the house.
    â€œWhatever you got going on, you don’t want to go back in there,” I said to her. “The police are crawling all over the place and they don’t need your company, and you don’t need to be joining Mercedes in the cruiser for getting in their way.”
    â€œExcept, at the moment, the cops are upstairs in the bathroom fraternizing with Conway, and I do need to find who did him in before Friday or I’m toast.” Reagan fished around in her yellow bag, pulled out papers and held them up for me to see. “Here’s the thing—Conway agreed to consign with me. This is for his cherry dining room table with eight chairs, the buffet, the side server, and the painting of the lion-eating-a-zebra, which from all accounts was pretty much his life in nutshell. He was redecorating, and I had first dibs. I came to get measurements.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œThe contract is good till Friday. I’ve paid movers and have customers hot to buy, money in