forty-eight

The next morning, when the hospital found out I didn’t have health insurance, they couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. The machine with the red button disappeared and was replaced by bitter, white capsules that made me woozy but cheerful.

The discharge nurse helped me into my clothes and put a sling on my arm. “Is somebody picking you up?” she asked, glancing at her watch. “Or should I call a cab?”

I eased over to the phone and lifted the receiver with my good hand. I started to dial SUE-THEM, but I kept seeing Ava’s face. She’d saved my life. The least I could do was stop chasing her husband. So I called Red Butler and told him the hospital was turfing me.

“Be right there,” he said.

The nurse gave me another pain pill and wheeled me down to the business office, which resembled an ultraexpensive hotel—tall windows, potted plants, and soothing background music. A darn good thing, too, because my bill came to $57,689.27. I all but signed a contract in my own blood, promising to pay monthly, then the nurse escorted me to the lobby.

Reporters from every Charleston news station waited outside, each one yelling my name.

“Miss Templeton!”

“Have the murder charges been cleared?”

“Who killed Bing Jackson?”

Red Butler’s van pulled up under the port cochere, and the nurse steered me past the electronic doors. Humid, gasoline-smelling air blew into my face. A reporter with a ginger-colored crew cut rushed forward and pushed a microphone in my face.

“Will you sue the police department for harassment?” he asked.

Red Butler shoved the man aside. “Want me to pull a Russell Crowe and start throwing shit?”

The reporter shrank back as Red Butler and the nurse helped me into the van. Cool air blew out of the vents, giving off salt water fumes, and the radio was playing an oldie, “MacArthur Park.” Mama would have paired that song with a recipe for key lime cake and Leviticus 7:12.

“Miss Templeton needs her prescriptions filled,” the nurse said, pushing white papers into my hand. From the radio, Jimmy Webb was singing about cakes being left in the rain, and I wondered if my own cakes had been confiscated by the police or if they were still sitting on the kitchen counter.

Red Butler climbed into the driver’s seat and, as usual, read my mind.

“Relax,” he said. “Ava and me delivered them to the store.”

Ava to the rescue. Again. Red Butler started the engine and drove off. I shut my eyes, and when I opened them again, we were parked outside the Rite Aid Pharmacy on Calhoun Street.

“Be back in a jiffy,” he said.

“Wait.” I did a one-handed reach for my purse. “Let me give you some money.”

“Forget it.” He climbed out of the van.

“I can pay for my own drugs!” I cried.

“It’s the least I can do, girlie.” He walked toward the pharmacy. The top of my head buzzed, a drunken dizziness that tasted like pinot noir. That damn pill. My eyelids dropped like heavy curtains. Then they changed into a silk prom dress that smelled of berries and vanilla. Vanilla, with its aphrodisiacal quirks. A pinot that pink cried out for grilled mesquite shrimp brushed with olive oil and bacon drippings, with a shot of chipotle and a hint of chives. Pile them on top of a deep bed of stone-ground grits and garnish with a wild onion and garlic salsa.

My mouth felt dry. If I had a bottle of anything, I’d drink every last drop, even though I wasn’t much of a drinker. What I needed was sugar, maybe a praline cheesecake with a dark chocolate drizzle and a triple caramel brûlée chaser.

Red Butler got back into the van and set a white sack in my lap. “The doctor gave you a new inhaler, but you won’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s pink.”

I peeked into the bag. Sure enough, the inhaler was pinkish purple. “Bing died because of that color,” I said. “If only Dora had wanted a blue house, he’d still be alive.”

“If-onlys are like wild canaries,” he said. “Once they fly out of the cage, you might as well open the window and let them go.”

“It’s going to take me a while to let this go. I never once thought Dora was a killer.”

“Maybe by herself she’s not. But when you put a Dora with a Nataloon, you get a third entity.”

“A Doraloon?”

“Or a Natora.” He drove out of the parking lot and turned toward the historic district. “Soon as the paperwork gets settled, you’ll own the Spencer-Jackson and everything that goes with it. Maybe you can paint it yellow.”

“Wait, are we going to Rainbow Row?” I leaned toward the windshield.

“Yeah.”

“Drop me off at a hotel.”

“Why, girlie?”

“The Spencer-Jackson isn’t rightfully mine.”

“The trust says otherwise.”

“I’m splitting it with Eileen.”

“You been freebasing Raid?”

“I won’t take blood money.”

“It’s still cash. You got to eat, don’t you? And you need a house.”

“I’ve got one. Just as soon as Coop can fix things, I’m moving back to Bonaventure.”

“You’re talking crazy, homegirl.”

“Whatever. Just stop at the next hotel.”

“Okeydokey.” He hung a right onto Market Street. “But if I was you, I’d go see the boss.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He and Ava need time alone.”

“What the hell for?”

“To work things out.”

“What things?” His forehead puckered.

“She saved my life. I owe her, big time.”

“Come on, Teeny. If she hadn’t been with us, we would’ve tore out every wall to find you.”

“But she was there. And she loves Coop. She wants him back.”

“Sure she does. But it ain’t up to her—or you. The boss will pick who he loves.”

“That’s exactly what Jesus said.”

“Who?” Red Butler looked away from the road.

“Never mind.” I lifted my good hand and pointed to a hotel. “Here’s the Marriot. Pull over. Hey, you passed it! Dammit, Red Butler, turn back.”

“It’s Red to you, girlie.”