Read Online Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery) by Duffy Brown - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Duffy Brown
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this day . . . or so we haunted Savannah tour guides liked to elaborate. The present day Cemetery was known for beer cocktails such as Black and Tans. Translation: pale ale, Guinness, with a taste like burnt tar with a dash of roadkill.
The place was long and narrow; wood bar lining one side; mismatched tables; ESPN on the tube; neon signs for Miller, Samuel Adams, Heineken, and the like dotting the wall; peanut shells on the floor. It was always in various stages of busy and tonight even more so because right above the old mahogany mirrored bar was a big red, white, and blue sign proclaiming “Archie Lee . . . wins!”
“What do you think about that?” I asked Chantilly, both of us staring at the proclamation.
“In hopes of a nice, peaceful night how about we go with this here sign being the power of positive thinking, and confidence is a virtue?”
“What about overconfidence? Sounds suspicious if you ask me. A little too overly positive considering Mamma hasn’t been found guilty. I wonder what Archie Lee has to say for himself?”
Chantilly headed for the bar. “Sweet mother in heaven, it’s gonna be one of those nights, I can tell.”
Chapter Five
C HANTILLY and I commandeered two stools at the end of the bar and ordered Miller Lights. “This seat taken?” Pillsbury sallied up to Chantilly, draping his piggy bank–tattooed arm around her, followed by a kiss on the cheek. He and I exchanged pleasantries, but the lovebirds were soon lost in their own little world, leaving me to come up with a tactful way to accuse Archie Lee of knocking off Scumbucket and framing Mamma. Archie Lee had the looks and temperament of Danny DeVito, making him one popular barkeep . . . usually. Heard tell the flipside was Archie Lee provoked.
“So,” I said over the din as Archie Lee refilled my bowl of boiled peanuts. “The election’s looking pretty good for you with Seymour and Summerside out of the way.”
“Need another beer?”
“How do you like campaigning?”
A barmaid called out an order, and Archie pulled the spigot on two beers, foam running over the top and dripping down the side.
“We don’t serve champagne here. We’re a beer and whiskey joint,” Archie yelled back to me and handed off the mugs to the waitress as another patron elbowed in with an order for three Black and Blues, another one of those burnt tar drinks.
Okay, this was going nowhere. The place was crowded, Archie Lee was busy as a one-armed paperhanger in a windstorm, and I needed someone who liked to chat. I tossed a few bills on the bar, dumped the nuts in a basket on the nearest table, and went in search of a boiled-peanut refill along with information. A hallway with chipped green paint and century-old dinged chair rail led out the back, and I followed it, taking a detour toward some racket and a small kitchen area.
“What are you doing back here?” a guy with Popeye muscles and Dr. Phil hair asked. Using a canoe paddle, he stirred a huge pot boiling over an old black stove propped up on one side by a two-by-four chunk of wood.
Being all Little Miss Dazed and Confused, I held up my empty basket. “Looking for a peanut refill. They’re kind of busy out front, thought I’d try back here. Well, my goodness gracious, is this how you make them?”
“They don’t make themselves, sweetheart. You got to leave. This is no place to be.”
“Everyone thinks you all make the best boiled peanuts in Savannah. Hope that doesn’t stop now that Archie Lee might wind up an alderman. You think he’s really serious about taking the job?”
“Looking forward to it as best I can tell. I can handle things around here when he’s off being mister good citizen.” Popeye popped the tops on twelve bottles of Guinness, dumped them into the caldron, then added boxes of Old Bay seasoning. He stirred the brew, yellow flames licking up the sides, spicy steam wafting over the top.
“Why get involved in politics when he has the bar? He’s
The place was long and narrow; wood bar lining one side; mismatched tables; ESPN on the tube; neon signs for Miller, Samuel Adams, Heineken, and the like dotting the wall; peanut shells on the floor. It was always in various stages of busy and tonight even more so because right above the old mahogany mirrored bar was a big red, white, and blue sign proclaiming “Archie Lee . . . wins!”
“What do you think about that?” I asked Chantilly, both of us staring at the proclamation.
“In hopes of a nice, peaceful night how about we go with this here sign being the power of positive thinking, and confidence is a virtue?”
“What about overconfidence? Sounds suspicious if you ask me. A little too overly positive considering Mamma hasn’t been found guilty. I wonder what Archie Lee has to say for himself?”
Chantilly headed for the bar. “Sweet mother in heaven, it’s gonna be one of those nights, I can tell.”
Chapter Five
C HANTILLY and I commandeered two stools at the end of the bar and ordered Miller Lights. “This seat taken?” Pillsbury sallied up to Chantilly, draping his piggy bank–tattooed arm around her, followed by a kiss on the cheek. He and I exchanged pleasantries, but the lovebirds were soon lost in their own little world, leaving me to come up with a tactful way to accuse Archie Lee of knocking off Scumbucket and framing Mamma. Archie Lee had the looks and temperament of Danny DeVito, making him one popular barkeep . . . usually. Heard tell the flipside was Archie Lee provoked.
“So,” I said over the din as Archie Lee refilled my bowl of boiled peanuts. “The election’s looking pretty good for you with Seymour and Summerside out of the way.”
“Need another beer?”
“How do you like campaigning?”
A barmaid called out an order, and Archie pulled the spigot on two beers, foam running over the top and dripping down the side.
“We don’t serve champagne here. We’re a beer and whiskey joint,” Archie yelled back to me and handed off the mugs to the waitress as another patron elbowed in with an order for three Black and Blues, another one of those burnt tar drinks.
Okay, this was going nowhere. The place was crowded, Archie Lee was busy as a one-armed paperhanger in a windstorm, and I needed someone who liked to chat. I tossed a few bills on the bar, dumped the nuts in a basket on the nearest table, and went in search of a boiled-peanut refill along with information. A hallway with chipped green paint and century-old dinged chair rail led out the back, and I followed it, taking a detour toward some racket and a small kitchen area.
“What are you doing back here?” a guy with Popeye muscles and Dr. Phil hair asked. Using a canoe paddle, he stirred a huge pot boiling over an old black stove propped up on one side by a two-by-four chunk of wood.
Being all Little Miss Dazed and Confused, I held up my empty basket. “Looking for a peanut refill. They’re kind of busy out front, thought I’d try back here. Well, my goodness gracious, is this how you make them?”
“They don’t make themselves, sweetheart. You got to leave. This is no place to be.”
“Everyone thinks you all make the best boiled peanuts in Savannah. Hope that doesn’t stop now that Archie Lee might wind up an alderman. You think he’s really serious about taking the job?”
“Looking forward to it as best I can tell. I can handle things around here when he’s off being mister good citizen.” Popeye popped the tops on twelve bottles of Guinness, dumped them into the caldron, then added boxes of Old Bay seasoning. He stirred the brew, yellow flames licking up the sides, spicy steam wafting over the top.
“Why get involved in politics when he has the bar? He’s
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