Up the Devil's Belly Page 3

  Built-in floor to ceiling cabinets concealed rows of stacked linens, massage lotions and creams, a small stereo system, stacks of compact discs, and aromatherapy supplies. Soft lighting from the linen-draped windows gave the room a peaceful, Mount Olympus ambiance.

  Holston asked, “You design this room?”

  “Natch,” Jake flipped back. “Now, let’s go see the wet treatment room. Then, we’ll tour the meditation garden.”

  The 14 x 14 mudroom had once been strewn with gardening tools, wet boots, and every manner of household overflow. The cleared area now contained a cushioned wet therapy table for use in sea salt scrubs, seaweed body wraps, and mud exfoliation treatments. A long water pipe with a line of shower nozzles was suspended over the table.

  “What’s that for?” Holston asked.

  “Visshyshower. Amazing experience. After a full body scrub and exfoliation, the patron lies on his or her stomach — draped with towels in the appropriate private places, of course. Then the circular shower curtain is pulled around like so… and these jets send a warm spray of water down the back, all along the spine. Most delightful!”

  Except for the freestanding etched Plexiglas shower stall in one corner, the remainder of the room was barren. The floor sloped slightly toward a central drain. Three fluffy white guest robes hung from a silver rack near the shower stall.

  “The tiled floor and walls will allow Stephanie to wash down the room after each treatment. Keeps it all clean and fresh,” Jake said.

  “Are you up to code as far as handicapped accessibility?” Holston asked.

  “Absolutely. We have ramps at all the entrance doors, and all three of the bathrooms used by patrons were enlarged and fitted with handrails and wheelchair accessible fixtures.” Jake looked around. “That’s about it for the first level, except for Evelyn’s workroom. The upstairs is pretty much unchanged. I’ve been too dang busy down here to update my own space. You know, the plumber’s sinks are always clogged. Eventually, we can use the upstairs as guest quarters for weekend retreat patrons.”

  Holston raised his eyebrows. “You moving sometime soon?”

  “Not right away. At some point in the future, Jon and I would like to have a house somewhere in town. Don’t worry. I won’t leave you with a mess on your hands. I’ll be the overseer whether I live here or not.” Jake motioned us to hurry outside. “Let’s tour the garden before Evelyn gets involved. Folks have a tendency to go in to her workroom and never come out.”

  The meditation garden filled the majority of the area within seventy feet of the rear double doors and wrapped one side of the house to the edge of a thicket of uncleared land that marked the posterior border of the lot.

  “Kelly from Native Nurseries in Tallahassee designed the layouts for the plantings, and her coworker, Sheila, planned the water garden feature. They delivered the plants, and we’ve all taken turns plugging them into the existing landscape. Moses dug the hole for the koi pond, and I talked him through the instructions for installing the liner, pump, and aquatic plants. He’s going to be in charge of grounds maintenance. Miz Lucille sure did us a favor by sending those kids over here. Tameka is learning to help Mandy with the interior work, and Moses is a whiz with the plants. He installed most of the ferns and the entire butterfly garden right by himself.”

  Jake chuckled. “It’s a good thing we have a laundry room on site. He looks like a mudball when he finishes. I’ve had him bring a change of clothes so we can soak the ones he wears. Take some of the work off his grandma, you know.”

  Jake guided us on to a slate pathway, pointing to the newly distributed plants. “I’ll try to remember the names without looking on the plan drawing. Moses will be along ’terectly, so if I miss anything, I’m sure he can tell you exactly.”

  Beneath the shade of a Southern magnolia, the koi pond was nestled between banks of ferns. A submerged pump pushed water over stacked slate rocks to form a series of waterfalls. Jake pointed to each clump of vegetation, calling them by name.

  “Sheila said that there would be moss growing on the rocks before long. It’ll look more natural then.” Jake motioned toward a small stand of shrubs in the shade of a massive live oak tree. “The bird area is over there in the semi-shade.”

  Three feeders were suspended from overhanging branches of a massive live oak. A boulder with a carved-out bowl depression served as a birdbath. Saw palmettos and berry-producing plants lined the periphery.

  “Now, follow the slate path. It’s wide and smooth enough for wheelchairs, by the way — Piddie did the test run for us. It leads to the butterfly/hummingbird sanctuary.”

  Three large cement urns contained mixtures of purple-leafed sweet potato vine, wild petunias, black-eyed susans, and clumps of dye flower coreopsis, Florida’s official wildflower.

  I pointed to a shrub with pointed dark green glossy leaves. “Is that a tea olive bush?”

  “Sure is. Good eye, Sister-girl. Kelly’s tried to incorporate native species — like this rhododendron here — with low maintenance plants that are drought and temperature resistant for north Florida. The tea olive will provide flowers even in the winter when other plants are dormant. There’s a night blooming jasmine over there, too.”

  “I remember that plant! Aunt Piddie had several in the back yard of her little house on Morgan Avenue. It blooms only at night with the sweetest, most heavenly scent. Too bad they can’t bottle that aroma. I’d buy a case.”

  “What I really like about this whole deal, other than the use of plants from the area, was that she worked around the established trees and shrubs. We had to remove a few of the old diseased azaleas, but we’ve kept pretty much everything else. Kelly found an old rose bed of mother’s that had gone wild. Said it contained a lot of antique varieties, and she’s going to keep the spot like it is — maybe put in a sitting bench.’“

  Jake pointed to a series of iron trellises at the rear of the garden. “There are several flowering vines planted, too. We’ll add to the plantings as time and money allow.”

  Jake motioned to the dense thicket. “We’d like to continue the slate path through the woods. My goal is to make the entire lot one enormous garden, all handicapped accessible.”

  I turned in a slow circle, studying the layout of the lot. “I never realized how big this property was.”

  “We have over four acres to play with. The Triple C will be a Southern showplace when we’re done with it. Maybe we’ll get written up in Southern Living magazine! It could happen. A girl has to have a dream!” Jake batted his eyelashes, then reached over and ran his hand playfully through my damp hair. “Now, Sister-girl, we’d better get you back inside so Mandy can tackle your coiffure before the party starts.”

  “Here’s how I see it. Devil’s got hisself a meanness meter – say one to a hundret. Little mean acts like pilferin’ your neighbor’s mornin’ paper or thinking how fat Elvina’s behind looks in her new skirt, they may be a five or ten. Devil don’t take much mind of them, ‘less they start to pile up and happen more regular. Then, he sets his sights on you. Sends more temptations to do meanness. Pretty soon, meanness seems normal, and you plumb forget what it felt like before. That’s when the Devil has you by the short hairs. The darkness comes a’ ridin’ into your soul in a fire-snortin’ gallop.”

  Piddie Davis Longman

  Chapter Three

  Daniel “Hank” Henderson, Attorney

  The intercom buzzer sounded on Daniel H. “Hank” Henderson’s private phone. “Yes, Maxie?”

  “Umm…Mr. Henderson…umm…there’s a Mr., what was your name? A Mr. Alfonso Williams here to see you.”

  Dumb blonde bitch secretary. Why the hell Janice had to go and get herself pregnant again at age forty, and leave was beyond his comprehension. How could a woman her age actually choose to have a clinging brat to take care of? Well, it was her husband’s deal to pay her way, now. None of his concern. And, this latest broad…Maxie…jeezus! It had taken her two freakin’ weeks to learn to use the i
ntercom instead of popping her cow face through the door every time someone came in for an appointment.

  “Mr. Henderson?” Maxie’s voice prompted.

  “Send him in!” Hank snapped.

  “Right away, sir.”

  The hurt in his secretary’s voice was immensely irritating. Alfonso Williams bound into his office like he was tuned in to the hard driving bass rap beat Hank despised with all of his being.

  “Shut the door!” Hank said.

  A brief flash of white-hot hatred fleeted across Alfonso’s dark eyes before his features returned to their normal state of disdainful disinterest.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Hank asked. “I sent word for you two days ago!” Damned black boys. If he could find one poor white-trash teenager to corrupt, he would be blasted if he ever had to deal with the likes of Alfonso again.

  Alfonso Williams shrugged and shuffled over to Hank’s mocha brown leather couch. Hank watched in disgust as the youth flopped onto the buttery soft upholstery and slung his filthy high top sneakers onto an armrest. The muscles popped and churned on Hank’s temples as he clenched his teeth to avoid striking the insolent teen.

  “Mister Williams, I have some work for you to do. Some errands. Important errands.”

  Alfonso ran his tongue across his new front gold crown. “I got a new boy for yo’ yard. I ain’t doin’ the yard work no more.”

  Hank hoisted his belted pants over his distended belly. “I don’t give a good gotdamn about the yard, boy.”

  Anger flickered in Alfonso’s eyes.

  “You need to be by my house today around 2:00 PM. to pick up a load of…,” Hank hesitated, enjoying the charade, “…clothes to donate to the local Goodwill store.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Alfonso nodded.

  The clothes bags would contain a combination of stereo components, laptop computers, hand guns, jewelry, possibly a Ziploc bag of black market amphetamines or painkillers; all overflow from the evidence room in Midview’s Police Department’s headquarters, compliments of Hank’s cousin, Lamar Mason.

  Hank lit a cigar and blew the thick blue smoke toward the couch. “Who’s this new boy?”

  Alfonso’s eyes watered. He blinked to clear his vision. “Moses Clark.”

  He motioned with the lit cigar. “What came of that other kid? I don’t remember his name.”

  “Marcus. His daddy said he can’t work for you no more.”

  Hank slammed his fist on the walnut desk. “Since when do any of you turn down money? Half y’all live in stinking one room shacks a rat wouldn’t set foot in!” Hank stood and peered out at the small garden patio beyond the double doors of his private office.

  How was he supposed to help these people if they couldn’t get off their lazy butts long enough to work a decent job? They’d rather steal for a living. All of ’em — thieves. Every last damn one.

  Alfonso’s dead stare bored into the back of Hank Henderson like a jagged, rusty knife, deeply cutting the white man’s heart out of his greedy chest. “Moses stays with his grandma. She’s got high blood and can’t work much. He need the money.”

  Hank brushed a piece of lint from his tailored pants. “This Moses. He got any brothers or sisters?”

  “One sister.” Alfonso glared at Hank, awaiting his next question.

  “Reckon she might need money, too?”

  “She’s just eight.”

  Hank’s sleazy grin slid over his features like an oil spill spoiling an overdeveloped strip of beach. “That never seemed to stop ’em before. Money’s money, Alfonso, my boy. I’ll pay her well for her…services.”

  Alfonso frowned. “Moses ain’t gonna go for none of it.”

  “Moses doesn’t have to know. Tell him I’ll pay him three times what he’ll get elsewhere. When he gets used to the cash, he won’t worry so much when his sister starts coming around.” Hank flipped through his phone number file and snatched the receiver from its cradle. “Don’t be late. I want that stuff out of my house today.”

  Dismissed, Alfonso slowly rose and shuffled from the room.

  “Maxie!” Hank barked into the intercom. “No more visitors today. I’ve got one call to make, then I have to leave for the day.”

  After a brief call to his cousin in Midview, Hank slicked his thinning dark gray hair back with a comb, checked his capped teeth in a mirror, and grabbed an oxblood red leather briefcase.

  As an afterthought, he turned toward the secretary and flashed a smile before he pushed his way through the glass double doors. “You can go on home early today, honey. I won’t be back in this afternoon. Why don’t you take yourself over to the new spa and enjoy a little of the grand opening? That’s where I’m headed.”

  Maxie’s expression brightened. “Thank you, Mr. Henderson!”

  Hank flipped the keyless entry button on his gold keychain. The Mercedes flashed its lights once in a seductive wink to announce the deactivation of the alarm. No need, really, to arm the system here at the office. The location next door to the Chattahoochee Police station assured safety. He just liked the feeling that he could.

  A self-satisfied smile teased his lips. Mercedes — the mark of someone who’s made it. At least his business endeavors allowed him to drive a fine piece of German machinery. Not like the Detroit pieces of shit the local hillbillies called transportation.

  The new sedan he’d ordered would put this whole county in awe — a black opal metallic Mercedes 500, S class series with gray leather interior. He mentally tabbed through the list of options: sport package, command system, brake assist, killer sound system, active suspension, and a GPS that would alert Mercedes if the air bags deployed. The impressive automobile would rack up at least $100,000 by the time tax, title, and destination charges were added.

  Just a few more months to make sure his distributors had paid his foreign bank accounts, one or two more deliveries from his interbred screwball cousin in Midview to top off the coffers, and he’d have ample means to take the sweet automobile on his last ride out of this hick town. He’d see the rural blight from its best vantage; retreating like a shot cur dog in his rear view mirror.

  Hank started the ignition and wheeled the Mercedes into the street. Pausing once to check his reflection in the lighted vanity mirror, he grimaced at the thought of attending another dull Chattahoochee business opening.

  “If I didn’t need to keep an eye on that Piddie Longman biddy, I’d blow this off and go to Destin for the night. Hell, maybe I’ll just head on down there after I check things out…as long as Alfonso shows up like he’s supposed to.”

  There’d always be some easily bribed female tourist ripe for the picking on the strip of beaches the locals called the Redneck Rivera. Drive a fancy car, whip some cash around, and they would fall at your feet; anxious to please and stupid as a stick, just the way Hank liked them.

  The Triple C Day Spa and Salon

  In her usual tradition, Elvina Houston was the first party guest to arrive. Piddie Longman maintained that Elvina came first and left last so she wouldn’t miss a thing or provide an opportunity to be talked about. Elvina wore a bright blue, yellow, and hot pink hibiscus-print cotton sundress accessorized with a straw purse and large-brimmed sunhat tied with a yellow grosgrain ribbon.

  “Mornin’, Elvina,” Piddie called from her station at the receiving table. “Don’t believe you’ll need that sunhat this mornin’. Too cloudy. You look like you’re gettin’ ready to meet the love boat to Jamaica.”

  Fully armed for the nice/nasty form of southern-women banter she lived for, Elvina smiled and cocked her head to one side. “And, you look like somethin’ out of a Susie Wong movie, shuga…”

  Piddie smoothed the satin material “Ain’t this red kimono beautiful? Evelyn made one for each of us — different colors to suit our personalities. She’s quite talented, my Evelyn.”

  Elvina sniffed. “It’s a good thing for Joe that she’s turned away from cookin’. I heard he’s eatin’ out at the Homeplace near every da
y at lunch.” Elvina looked around the front parlor. “Lordy mercy! If this isn’t a lovely place now! It’s every bit as grand as when Betsy Lou Witherspoon first moved in.”

  Piddie nodded. “Better. She had the tackiest taste this side of the Mason/Dixon line…kinda like Elvis Presley and Graceland. Don’t you remember the time the old bat redid her kitchen to look like a 40’s diner?”

  Elvina swatted the air with one hand. “I had forgotten all about that! She gave that fancy tea, remember? That was when Sissy Pridgeon was still alive. Lawdsy, I can still see the look on Sissy’s face when she walked into Betsy Lou’s kitchen. As I recall, it was a most ungodly combination of colors.”

  Piddie chuckled. “Betsy Lou was colorblind, you know. That’s why her clothes never matched just right. She had the money to hire a decorator, but insisted on doing it herself and allowin’ the experience to overcome her.”

  Elvina smiled and adjusted her hat so that it tipped flirtatiously over one eye. “Good thing Jake had some fashion sense. He was, I believe, around ten or eleven at the time. He told his mama what no one else in this town dared — that the colors were downright tacky! She let him redo the entire house after folks went on about how he saved the kitchen. Amazing, isn’t it? That his talent showed up at such a young age.”

  Piddie shrugged. “Not really. I’m sure you and I were naturals the very first time we held a phone receiver in our hands.”

  The two old women dissolved into fits of laughter.

  “What are you two cackling about?” Jake asked. He placed a bamboo-trimmed handmade book on the table by Piddie.

  Piddie winked at Elvina. “Just reminiscing ’bout old times — somethin’ you do when you get to the point where there’s more life a-layin’ behind you than stretched out in front.”

  Jake pecked Piddie on one heavily rouged cheek. “I hope you’ll have many more years out in front.” He patted the towering sides of Piddie’s coifed hair. “Your hair is positively a work of art today, Pid. That color goes perfectly with your kimono.”