Free Killer in Crinolines by Duffy Brown

clearly had not. “There’s more than one package,” Waynetta ordered. “Fact is I have a whole living room full. I’m returning all my wedding gifts. My fiancé was murdered; you probably read about it in the papers. Bessy May has done packed up all my gifts, took her a full day, and I do declare I’m plum worn out from the experience.”
    “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
    “That’s mighty neighborly of you.” Waynetta offered a wobbly smile, then sniffed and swiped at a nonexistent tear. “There was a truly lovely silver tea service I’ll miss something awful.”
    I was referring to Simon dead as a bedpost down at Savannah’s House of Heavenly Slumber. Another shot rang out, the cutout of Simon swaying from the impact. “I take it your daddy wasn’t all that fond of Simon.”
    The
I can do anything better
look turned to an
eat dirt and die
look. “I’ll have you know Daddy loved Simon. They were pals, he treated Simon like a son, and the reason Daddy’s shooting at his likeness is that he’s so mad at Simon for getting himself done in that he has to let off steam.” Waynetta’s eyes got all watery again but the wishing-me-dead part lingered.
    Waynetta didn’t mourn the death of her almost husband and was doing her best to convince me that her daddy liked Simon when obviously he didn’t. Savannah-style mourning consisted of rounds of forty-year-old bourbon, Havana cigars, and a deviled egg or two, but not bullets in the head.
    I waited for Waynetta to go inside but instead of heading for the back of the house to get the packages, I strolled out to Reese Waverly. Something was going on out at Waverly Farms and it wasn’t a lot of crying and carrying on.
    “What?” Reese asked, not taking his eyes from the target.
    I held up my handy-dandy DIAD signature thing. “I just need for you to sign that I’m picking up packages. I’m sorry for your loss.” That line got Waynetta talking and I hoped it would do the same thing now. “Yeah, some loss.” Reese neutered Simon with one pull of the trigger.
    “Waynetta doesn’t seem all that upset,” I ventured.
    Reese snarled, “She’s plenty upset. Cried and carried on something fierce all night long. She keeps her feelings to herself with strangers is all.” He scribbled on the little machine. “Packages are around back. Go collect them and be on you way.” This time Reese put a bullet clean through Simon’s heart.
    Taking the hint, I scampered back to the truck, put it in gear, and headed for the rear entrance just as a red ’57 Chevy convertible crunched its way down the crushed-oyster-shell drive. Walker Boone? No one else I knew had that car. It wasn’t exactly a silver SUV like the rest of the country drove. What was that man doing here? The Waverly horse farm was third-generation Southern sophistication; Walker Boone was first-generation legit and at times even that was questionable. Boone had his share of snobby friends and even belonged to the country club, but he and Reese Waverly didn’t run in the same circles. They barely lived on the same planet. Yet here they were.
    If Boone can drop in on me, I can eavesdrop on him, right? I got the truck out of sight, killed the engine, then wiggled between the magnolia tress in front to catch a peek. Boone shook Dead-eye’s hand, but it was more businesslike than good-old-boy friendly.
    “You are some kind of busybody,” Waynetta said from behind me again. “I’m calling your supervisor right this very minute.”
    “Thought I dropped something out of the truck is all. Thought it rolled into the bushes and I was looking for it.”
    “Why are you spying on my daddy?” she hissed. “Are you spying on me, too?” She eyed my T-shirt. “Gap is not UPS. I know you. You’re that Summerside person. Your mamma’s running for city council and you own a consignment shop and got divorced from Hollis Beaumont. I should call the police; I bet you’re here trying to run off with all my stuff to