Demise in Denim by Duffy Brown Page A

next to that was a club member application from some guy named Grayden Russell. His residence was the Old Harbor Inn. I stared at the application. Boone had mentioned Grayden Russell’s name the night we switched modes of transportation—something about Russell being out to get him? I had no idea who this guy was or why he was after Boone.
    The side drawer held club stationery; the other side drawer was packed with power bars and M&Ms. The middle drawer was stuck. I didn’t have time for stuck. Chantilly was downstairs playing for time, and I didn’t trust Mason Dixon any further than I could throw him. I pulled harder; something was still holding it in place till I gave one more yank. The drawer gave way, sending me stumbling backward as it sailed out of the slot, hit the floor, and flipped over, and a .38 duct-taped to the underside slid off.
    Whoa! Guess the Plantation Club wasn’t all jasmine and sweet tea; the boys knew how to play rough. Carefully, I picked up the gun and the tape to reattach it, and there stuck to the tape was a picture. Holy Moses, it was another happy-family photo. Not exactly like the one at Boone’s house, but close. I almost dropped the blasted gun.
    I sat on the floor, because my legs were jelly, and tried to make sense of what was going on in front of me. If Dixon had this photo, he knew Conway was Boone’s father. Conway Adkins didn’t lend Dixon money—he
gave
it to him? The money was a bribe to Dixon to keep his mouth shut? Conway might have told Tucker that he had a brother, but only after Mrs. Adkins died. Having Walker as part of the Adkins family had been a deal-breaker since the get-go. My guess was Conway had been paying Dixon off for years.
    A piercing screech filled the club. Fire alarm? I crawled over to the window. No smoke billowing out the front, but whatever was going on, the fire department would arrive in minutes and here I was in Dixon’s office with a gun in my lap and my best friend downstairs in all her slutty glory. If we made the papers, Pillsbury and Boone would be in lecture mode—
What were you thinking?
—for months, and of course Chantilly and I would be sharing that closet.
    With the alarm blaring, sirens approaching, and my hands shaking, I taped the picture and gun to the underside of the drawer, then scooped up the pens, pencils, Tic Tacs, and other office paraphernalia and slid the drawer back in. I peeked out into the hall to make sure the coast was clear and that no one saw me leaving the office. I tore down the steps as firefighters galloped up. I put my hands over my face and did some faked coughing and gagging, even though there wasn’t any smoke. I pointed upstairs. “Dogs, cats, kids.”
    Any firefighter worth his hose would go after a dog, cat, and kid. Then I bolted out the open rear door into the back alley and smashed flat into a blue pinstriped suit with a red carnation. Dixon! Eye-to-eye, we both stared at each otherfor a split second as Dixon tried to remember who I was. I took the opportunity to dash for the Dumpster, then on to the next alley, coming out on Barnard. The street was clogged with fire trucks, EMS units, and cops, but no Chantilly and no smoke.
    â€œPsst” came from a Jeep double-parked next to a police cruiser. Chantilly’s eyes peered at me just above the window line; her once-bouffant hair now tumbled around her head and her makeup was smeared. I ran for the Jeep and jumped in, and Chantilly laid rubber before I had the door shut.
    â€œYou’re a mess,” I said, taking in her hair and clothes. “Did you get caught in the fire?”
    â€œThe old goat chased me around that Robert E. Lee room, and he’s a fast little devil. Had me sweating like a pig.”
    â€œYou’re kidding!”
    Chantilly cut her eyes my way and snarled. “This is not the look of frivolity. I dodged that no-good louse as long as I could to give you time in his