Demise in Denim by Duffy Brown Page A

I can tell you that, but things seem to be stacking up against him and I don’t rightly know how to turn it all around. I’m truly afraid for him.”
    Steffy Lou floated out the door in a wave of black taffeta, Southern sophistication, and sweet vanilla. She headed down the hall and I hoisted Old Yeller onto my shoulder, opened the back door, and slipped into the night, my brain fixated on Grayden Russell, whoever he was. The parkinglot seemed to be Mason Dixon free, so I headed for the car but changed my mind. Figuring KiKi would be hungry after a night of twenty questions with Mason Dixon and the fact that I’d skipped dinner to catch up on laundry, I suffered the pain of walking in heels and hoofed up Price to York in a quest for food. I could drive the sexy Chevy, but it was easier to leave it moored safely at its present location and walk.
    Inhaling deeply, I caught the spicy scent of Walls’ BBQ a block before I spied the little red bench on the covered porch. Walls’ was a hidden-away hole-in-the-wall kind of place, surrounded by small day shops and frequented by locals and tourists lucky enough to find it with the help of Yelp and Google Maps. My mouth started to water in anticipation of tender ribs with a side of collard greens. I’d get the small portions for a change, as pigging down at this hour probably wasn’t a great idea for my waistline or my digestive system, but . . . but someone was following me?
    During the day York had its share of foot traffic, but at night I walked alone. The shadows were dark and deep, with lamplight tucked behind oak leaves and layers of Spanish moss. Usually those things offered ambiance with a touch of Southern romance; right now not so much.
    I could feel eyes boring into my back, and I did what any woman would do in my situation. I hugged Old Yeller tight like a security blanket and ran like the devil to get my ribs! I ordered quarter portions, then tore back to the Chevy, my feet not touching the ground and basic primal fear spurring me on. By the time I garaged the Chevy I had blisters the size of peach stones and I was walking barefoot.
    I took the moonlit path around the side of Cherry House,feeling calmer with Southern cuisine tucked under my arm and BW and KiKi waiting on the front porch with a shaker of martinis. For some, home was supper on the table at five, cookies in the oven, or a fire in the hearth. For KiKi and me it seemed to be a martini shaker and a dog on the porch, and a few of those cookies were okay, too. Home sweet home indeed, even if it did have a hole in the roof.
    â€œSo that’s where you hightailed it off to,” KiKi said to me as she eyed the white bag in my arms and inhaled deeply. She had on the blue floral housecoat I’d given her for her birthday and matching rollers already curled into her hair. She handed me a frosted martini glass, with a toothpick speared through a tiny gherkin pickle.
    â€œOut of olives?”
    â€œWe don’t want to be boring.”
    â€œIt’s been a day of sequins, fire trucks, and funerals.”
And stalkers
, but KiKi didn’t need to fret over every little detail of my life, now did she? “I think we’re at a ten on the nonboring scale.”
    I put the bag from Walls’ between us, and the heavenly aroma surrounded us as KiKi smacked her lips. “Find anything out from Dixon?” I asked, handing her a take-out container. I took the other and pulled out a plain hot dog for BW that Walls’ threw in for free. BW parked between us and I broke the hot dog into nice bite-size pieces, and then we all three dug in.
    â€œDixon is not a happy camper, I can tell you that,” KiKi said, slurping sauce off her fingertips. “My guess is it has to do with you in his office and suspecting him of blackmail. I’d watch myself with that one, dear.”
    She patted my knee, then took another bite of rib, her eyes glazing over in ecstasy.