Demise in Denim by Duffy Brown

curls of smoke fading into air. “Everyone is indeed entitled to their own opinion in this here world, but I must say that you’ve got it all wrong with Walker. I’m sorry about your divorce, I truly am, but he’s one of the good guys. I don’t care what the evidence says; Walker Boone didn’t kill Conway. He’d never do such a terrible thing. It’s just not like Walker at all.” Her voice wobbled and she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
    Okay, this did not reflect her husband Tucker’s view on the situation at all. I wetted a towel and swiped at my tea stains, but I was more interested in Steffy Lou’s take on what was going on than my dress. “You know Boone?”
    â€œOh my, yes. We’re on the Tybee Post Theater committee to save it from the wrecking ball and now from the greedy developers who want to buy it outright. It’s such a lovely theater out there on Tybee Island, and I planned this dinnerand talent show coming up to make money to help save the place. Walker did all the legal work for free, bless his heart. We worked together morning, noon, and night to get the papers filled out just right. The committee’s trying mighty hard to get the theater on the National Registry to save it; we’re even having those special car license plates issued to draw interest. The very night Walker was charged with murder and had so much on his mind, he came to warn me that this Grayden Russell person wanted to buy the theater and that I might be in danger if I didn’t go along with it. Now I ask you, does that sound like a cold-blooded killer? He was worried about me more than himself.”
    I dropped the towel. “Who
is
this Grayden Russell guy? He’s new in town?”
    â€œFrom Charleston. Up there they all think they’re better than we are down here in Savannah, but the way I see it they are the ones closer to those Yankees. Seems Russell came here with his sights set on buying the theater to turn it into a resort of some nature that’s bound to be dreadful. Walker felt that Russell intended to get rid of the two of us as a warning to the theater committee to sell.”
    Steffy Lou sat up straight and raised her chin. “Well, let me tell you, that tactic might work up North where he comes from, but it doesn’t stand a chance here in Savannah.”
    She snuffed out her cigarette in a little silver compact she obviously kept for smoking lapses and snapped the evidence closed up neatly inside. She stood, shoulders back, head high, eyes set. “That man will never, and I do mean never, get his hands on the Tybee Theater if it takes my last dying breath.” She poked herself in the chest. “I am of the theater,a patron of the arts. A performer. As God is my witness, the theater will be saved.”
    I waited for a band to strike up “Dixie,” but when that didn’t happen I offered, “My auntie took me to see
Peter Pan
there when I was little. It was fantastic.”
    Steffy Lou smiled, her eyes sparking. “Oh my goodness, I played one of the Lost Boys.” She cleared her voice and let out a pretty decent rendition of “I Won’t Grow Up” right there in the composition addition bathroom.
    I applauded and Steffy Lou bowed. The whole thing seemed a little odd, but Steffy Lou deserved a smile. She’d just lost her father-in-law, who’d seemed to treat her well, and the poor woman had married Tucker Adkins, God help her.
    â€œI best get back,” she said, tossing a mint in her mouth and adding a spritz of something vanilla from a little atomizer to kill all evidence of smoker gone wild. She obviously had this experience down to a science.
    â€œEveryone will be wondering where I am.” She opened the door and glanced back to me. “I sure do hope you change your mind about Walker Boone being guilty. He’s a fine man, he truly is. He deserves better than he’s getting,