A Teeny Bit of Trouble: A Novel

one

It’s not every day that I bake a dozen red velvet cakes, learn that my boyfriend has a love child, and I witness a murder. To calm down, I invented a whole menu based on the Miranda warning. My favorite is Anything-You-Say-Can-Be-Used-Against-You Quiche. It calls for onions, smoked ham, and pepper cheese. Place ingredients in a deep-dish crust and add heavy whipping cream, salt, and pepper. Bake in a 400-degree oven until the filling is nicely browned. Serve with You-Have-the-Right-to-Remain-Silent Salsa and You-Have-the-Right-to-an-Attorney Pita Dippers.

Coop O’Malley is my lawyer and my boyfriend. He just started working at a big firm here in Charleston. The job comes with an ulcer, which is why I was home on a Saturday afternoon baking cakes instead of eating sweet tea scallops at Palmetto Place. We were supposed to meet there to celebrate Coop’s thirty-first birthday, but he’d phoned on my way out the door.

Hey, Teeny, he’d said. I hate to cancel at the last minute, but my boss asked me to work overtime.

I had no reason to doubt him. Coop was a by-the-book kind of guy. Loyal, meticulous, and hard working. That’s what had drawn me to him in the first place, way back when we were kids. I’m a spontaneous, trouble-prone gal, and he’s a cautious, rule-following guy. His personal motto is engraved on the back of his watch, semper paratus, always prepared. My motto is merda accidit, shit happens. Opposites attract, right?

I spent the rest of the day getting my order ready for The Picky Palate—that’s a café in the historic district. I’m a freelance baker. This is a dream job for a self-taught cook like myself, especially since this city is filled with professional chefs. I work at home and tote my pastries to the café, which sells everything on consignment. The red velvet cakes go into a revolving glass case with other Low Country favorites—shrimp and grits martinis, Benne Wafer Trifle, Pluff Mud Pie. At the end of the day, the shelves were empty.

Late that afternoon, I put the cakes into my beat-up turquoise convertible and drove to the café. The smell of buttered corn bread pulled me down the aisle, past shelves that overflowed with raffia-tied jars—gourmet jellies, lemon curd, pickled okra.

My boss stepped out of her office and put her freckled arm around my waist. I’m going back to chef school, Jan said. I’m selling The Picky Palate. Would you like to buy it?

My knees wobbled. A few months ago, I couldn’t afford a peach martini, much less a whole café. Then, on a fluke, I’d inherited the Spencer-Jackson House on Rainbow Row, along with a trust fund. I hadn’t decided what to do with either one. I’d been raised by hardcore Southern Baptists, women who were deeply suspicious of earthly treasures, and they’d taught me that the Lord was a tad capricious about giving and taking. So I hadn’t quit my job, nor had I sold my peach farm in Georgia.

I didn’t know doodly squat about running a business, but I promised Jan I’d think about her offer. As I drove home, the August heat punched against the top of my head like a fist. The minute I stepped into my kitchen, the phone rang. Before I could say hello, a lady shouted, Quit spying on me, Teeny Templeton!

Each word burned my ear, as if scalding water had spurted out of the receiver. I recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to Barb Browning Philpot, Coop’s high school sweetheart. They’d broken up eleven years ago, right after he’d gone away to college.

Why are you calling me after all this time? I asked. And why do you think I’m spying?

Drop the Miss Innocent act, Barb said. Each word left a smoking imprint on my brain. Come near me and my daughter again, and I’ll hit you with a restraining order.

The only thing that needed restraining was Barb’s tongue. I lifted the caller ID box. The screen showed a number with a South Carolina area code. My hand trembled as I set down the box. What was going on? I’d moved away from Bonaventure, Georgia, six months ago, but Barb still lived there with her pharmacist-husband and their ten-year-old daughter. I’d never seen the child. Or maybe I had.

Six weeks earlier, on a hot June afternoon, a little girl had shown up at Coop’s beach house, claiming he was her daddy. He’d told me that his old college roommate was behind it. Barb’s name hadn’t come up. Nor had the child returned to Coop’s house. Now, just remembering that day made my lungs flatten. I reached into my apron pocket, pulled out my asthma inhaler, and took a puff.

Poor Teeny, Barb said. You can’t catch a break—or your breath. And you never will. Coop wants to dump you just like he did in high school. He’s sick of your dead rat pussy.

I let that comment pass. Barb, I don’t have a reason to spy on you.

No? Her voice screaked up. I saw you peeking through my window last night.

That’s impossible, I said. I was with Coop last night. And I’d fed him shrimp tacos, red rice, and strawberry shortcake with lots of whipped cream.

He’ll be with me tonight, she said.

Wrong, I said. He’s working.

Is that what he told you? She laughed, a blade-sharp sound that cut right to my soul.

I hung up and dialed Coop’s cell phone. Not that I believed Barb for a second, but when he didn’t pick up, I felt all woozy-headed and my rear end hit the floor. I just sat there, breathing through my mouth. My bulldog, Sir, pushed his cold nose against my arm. He’s brown and white, with a smooshed-in, wrinkled muzzle. A creamy stripe runs down the center of his head, as if he’d collided with a bowl of royal icing. Normally, he calms me down, but I kept shaking.

I punched in the number to Coop’s law firm. The answering service informed me that everyone had left for the day. My throat clenched, as if I’d accidentally swallowed a cocktail onion. Was I reaching for trouble or was trouble reaching for me?

The afternoon wore on and wore me out. I called Coop three more times; he didn’t pick up, and I didn’t leave voice mail. If he wasn’t at the office, where was he? And what about that little girl who’d shown up on his porch a few weeks ago? Was she Coop’s long-lost child? He was an honorable man. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d gone back to Barb so he could help her raise their daughter. And he just hadn’t found the words to break up with me.

Don’t get me wrong—I love children. But I hate liars. A while back, I’d promised Jesus that I would tell the truth, and I began keeping a yearly record of my fibs. Every January first, I start a new tally, and I end it twelve months later on New Year’s Eve. This year, I’d told eighteen lies, and it was only mid-August. If I got cornered, my score could rise into the triple digits.

Coop was one of the few people who understood my preoccupation with the ninth commandment. When I was eight years old, my mama, Ruby Ann Templeton, had abandoned me at the Bonaventure Dairy Queen. She told me to run inside and buy two cones. When I came out, her car was gone. I never saw her again. Mama’s older sister, Bluette, raised me. My aunt promised to never leave, but cancer is an asshole disease that doesn’t honor promises. Last winter, she died, but she’d become my moral compass. What would she think about my dilemma?

One of her favorite mottos was Believe but verify. That’s what her hero, President Ronald Regan, used to say about the Russians. I wasn’t sure it applied to boyfriends, but a little verification wouldn’t hurt—just as long as the verifier wasn’t caught. I’m not a violent person. But tonight might be a different story if I found Coop and Barb doing the horizontal boogie.

I waited until 10.00 p.m., when it was full dark outside, then I opened my laptop and did a reverse search on Barb’s phone number. I got a hit for a Sullivan’s Island rental on Atlantic Avenue, a ritzy address, just 10.4 miles from me and six miles to Coop’s house on Isle of Palms.

First, I MapQuested the directions. Next, I went upstairs and dug through my closet. The rack was filled with consignment store finds: raspberry dresses, lime skirts, tangerine blouses. Unless I wanted Barb to spot me, I’d need to wear something less colorful. I pulled out a black scuba suit. A few weeks ago, I’d found it at a garage sale, and my head had filled with visions of a tropical, snorkeling vacation. Thank goodness I’d bought it, because it was my only black outfit. I put it on and stuffed my hair into a Braves baseball cap. I cringed when I passed by the foyer mirror. All I lacked was a harpoon and I could go after Moby Dick. But I wasn’t gunning for a whale. I was going after the truth and a tall, blond bitch.

I drove my convertible across the Ravenel Bridge. By the time I reached Sullivan’s Island, the wind had sucked out strands at my hair, and I looked like a rabid possum. I parked on the beach access road and walked to Barb’s rental. The night arched above me, dark as a mine shaft. A storm was blowing in from the Atlantic, and the air reeked of dead fish and pluff mud.

It wasn’t too late to turn back. I could go home and watch a Cary Grant movie, Suspicion or Charade, and plow through a gallon of peach ice cream. I didn’t have to be a stalker-girl.

No, Teeny. Keep going. You’ve got to verify.

Barb’s house sat on a jetty, a three-story brown clapboard that lorded over the cozy, old-fashioned bungalows. They were dark and shuttered, but her windows glowed with curry-colored light. I walked to the backyard and stopped beside a clump of sea oats. A wooden deck ran down the length of the house. The floodlights came on, and bright cones splashed across the grass. I moved back into the shadows, congratulating myself on my smart attire. My dark suit was the perfect camouflage.

A skinny blonde flung open a door and stepped onto the deck, her white caftan snapping in the wind. She held a martini glass, and the liquor shimmered like a melted apple. Her eyes darted this way and that way. Over the years, I’d seen Barb’s photograph in the Bonaventure Gazette’s society pages, but I’d forgotten how pretty she was in person.

I blinked. What had gone wrong with her perfect life? Why was she living in a rental? And where was her little girl? The beam from the Sullivan’s Island lighthouse circled toward me, and I dove into the oats. My cap flew off and honey-colored frizz exploded around my shoulders.

Teeny? she called. I know it’s you because I recognize your shitty hair. If you damage my sea oats, I’ll shave your head.

I grabbed my Braves cap and stepped toward the deck. I pressed my tongue against the thin gap between my front teeth and grinned. Not because I was amused. This was my oh shit I want to die smile. It was involuntary, like a sneeze, and held back a slew of emotions.

Barb skewered me with a look, her eyes cold and sharp as sea glass.

I’m not spying, I said, and raised my lie tally to nineteen.

Then why are you here?

I lost my dog. Lie number twenty.

"I thought you were a dog. She spoke in a slurry voice. As she veered to the edge of the deck railing, the martini sloshed out of her glass. Why are you wearing that stupid wet suit?"

It’s the latest style. Lie number twenty-one. I was on a roll.

Maybe at SeaWorld. She laughed, a high, tinkly sound.

I dragged my shoe through the sandy grass. If only I’d brought that harpoon, I could have pinned her to the deck and force-fed her benne wafers.

She clawed her hair out of her face. Coop just left. But he’ll be back.

Her voice hit me like unripe peaches, each one piling up on my chest, crushing my lungs. What would it take to bring her down? Two harpoons and a Russian sub wouldn’t be enough.

You’re making this up, I said.

I don’t care if you believe me. But you shouldn’t believe Coop, either. The truth doesn’t matter to a lawyer. She put her martini glass on the deck railing, then she pulled a BlackBerry from her pocket and squinted at the keypad. I’ve got proof he was here. Want to see his picture? Step a little nearer. But not too near or I’ll call 911.

I squinted up at the phone and my stomach tensed. Coop’s image filled the little display screen. He sat on a white sofa, red kilim pillows heaped around him. I dragged my gaze away from the phone and looked into the living room. The same white sofa. Same pillows.

Barb flashed a triumphant smile. I’m sorry it has to be this way. But you’re better off. You shouldn’t be with a man who doesn’t love you.

More hard, knotty peaches landed on my chest. I wanted to toss them back, but I couldn’t move.

Poor Teeny. You have such a look of pain in your eyes. But you’ll feel more pain when I call the police and report you for trespassing. Barb spoke without malice, but hate blew off her in clear, wavy sheets like steam rising from a boiling soup pot. She glanced down at her phone again, her finger poised over the keypad. You’ve got two seconds to get off my property.

She walked back into her living room and closed the patio door. She stood there, watching me.

Tears burned the backs of my eyes as I walked around her house, through the shadowy yard. When I got near the driveway, I heard footsteps. A tall, rangy guy in a Bill Clinton mask strode toward Barb’s front door. The mask was rubber and fit over his whole head, hiding his face and hair color. The wind kicked up his black Windbreaker, showing a baggy jog suit and skinny legs. One gloved hand held a key. He opened the front door and stepped into Barb’s house.

Coop? I thought. Is that you? My stomach cramped and I bent over double. Why did he have a key? How long had he been seeing Barb? Believe but verify, Teeny.

I hurried into her backyard, trying to ignore the tight, squished feeling in my chest. I was trespassing. But I wouldn’t do anything crazy, like throw sand. I’d just call them assholes, which was a perfectly legal thing to say, then I’d take my bulldog and leave town.

I tiptoed up the deck staircase and peered through the glass door. Barb and the masked guy were arguing. His gloves were latex, the kind favored by surgeons. Blue paper booties covered his shoes. No, he definitely wasn’t Coop. Not with those long, stringy legs.

He grabbed Barb’s neck and they veered into a table. A pottery lamp crashed to the floor and shattered. The man’s gloved fingers sank into Barb’s throat. Her face reddened, and her eyes bulged. He was murdering her. I dug my cell phone out of my rubber pocket to call the police. Before I could flip it open, my alarm went off, playing the stupid-ass theme song to The Twilight Zone. I cupped my fingers over the phone, trying to smother the sound, but the man had heard. His head swiveled. He dropped Barb and she crumpled to the floor. He stepped over her limp body. Then he lunged toward me.

Holy crap. He’d killed her and I was next. I vaulted down the deck stairs as if a jet stream were coming out of my butt, and I flew into the terrible night.

two

I raced around Barb’s house and skidded into the driveway. Oh, Lord. I’d just witnessed a murder. And now the murderer was after me. I glanced over my shoulder. Bill Clinton stood five feet away, right beside the trash can.

Leave me alone, I yelled, brandishing the Nokia. It was still playing the creepy music. I tried to shut off the sound, but the phone squirted out of my hand and clattered on the pavement. I bolted onto Atlantic Avenue and cut down a side street. A shingled cottage was just ahead, and it looked occupied—lights blazing, cars in the driveway.

I sprinted across the front lawn and tripped over a concrete garden gnome. I must have blacked out a minute. When I came to, my head ached and grass was stuck all over me, as if I’d been garnished with parsley. I grabbed the gnome’s ears and pulled up. The yard was empty. So was the street.

Deep breath, Teeny. Come on, honey. Just open your mouth and breathe.

A teenaged girl with short red hair turned up the driveway. She glanced at the garden gnome, then her gaze stopped on me. She jolted. What’re you doing in my yard? You trying to steal something?

I got to my feet. What could I say? That a guy in a Bill Clinton mask had killed my rival? That he’d chased me? But I felt so dozy-headed. What had I really seen? A guy was chasing me, I said.

The redhead stared at my wet suit. Maybe he thought you were a burglar. Why are you dressed that way? Were you night surfing?

Yeah, I said, and bumped my lie count to twenty-two. I glanced at the street. Shadows leaped across the pavement, but I didn’t see the man.

The redhead stepped closer. If you’re scared, call the police.

Can’t. I lost my cell phone.

Oh, my god. She clapped one hand to her cheek. If I lost my cell, I’d be totally freaked. It’s got my Facebook password and everything.

Great. I hadn’t thought about that. My Nokia was crammed with pictures of Sir and Coop and my cakes. If Barb’s strangler had found the phone, I’d be dead baker walking.

I’m sorry about your troubles. The redhead squinted at my wet suit again. But you need to leave. If my mama sees you, she’ll think I’m hanging out with bad people. She’ll ground me.

I gathered up my courage and crept back to the rental. The floodlights were off, and darkness pooled in the long, empty driveway. Only the Lord knew where I’d dropped my phone. But I had to find it. I forced myself to scuttle forward. The floodlights came on, streaking down the concrete. A high-pitched girlie voice cried, Get off my property, you freak.

A little girl stood on the front porch. She yanked two iPod wires out of her ears and glared. Her skinny legs protruded from a pink nightgown. Two dark blond braids fell past her shoulders. I gazed at the child’s huge gray eyes, and all the breath rushed out of my lungs.

What’s your name? I asked. But I knew. This was the child who’d knocked on Coop’s front door all those weeks ago. Suddenly everything clicked into place. This is Barb’s child.

I’m Emerson Philpot, she said in a loud, arrogant voice. She moved to the edge of the porch. The wind lifted her braids and she slapped them down.

I started to introduce myself, but she cut me off. I know who you are. You’re my daddy’s booty-call. If you don’t get out of my damn driveway, I’ll scream. It’s against the law to scream after dark on Sullivan’s Island.

My ears rang with one word: Daddy. I pushed my hair out of my face. How could Barb run away? She’d been choked. But it had happened so fast, I couldn’t be sure. I half-expected her to walk out that front door, her caftan billowing.

Where’s your mama? My voice sounded high and unnatural, as if I’d sipped helium.

Gone. Her car isn’t in the garage, and her suitcase is missing. She runned off and left me. I’m not staying by myself. I’m going inside to pack. Then you’re taking me to Daddy. He’ll know what to do.

She darted into the house, leaving the door ajar. My collision with the garden gnome had left me with a dull headache, but I made myself go inside. Barb’s body wasn’t on the floor. The broken lamp was missing, and the shattered bits had been swept up. Maybe I was hallucinating. Or dreaming. I pinched my hand.

Ouch, that hurt. Okay, so this was real.

A portable phone sat on a rattan table. I lifted the receiver and called Coop’s cell phone. I got turfed straight to voice mail. Next, I called his house. A busy signal. I started to punch in 911—it was the right thing to do—but my finger froze over the 9. Just two months ago, I’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the cops had accused me of killing a guy. Well, actually he’d been my ex-fiancé. I’d caught him playing naked badminton with two naked skanks, and I’d attacked them with peaches. When the ex turned up dead, the police had interrogated me. I’d told the truth, but it had sounded weird and unbelievable, and I’d ended up in trouble.

Don’t think about it. Don’t you dare.

It wasn’t my personality to dwell on the past, especially if it dredged up hurtful memories, but I reminded myself of three important facts. One, the truth hadn’t set my ass free. Two, Coop had made sure that my name was cleared (and I wanted to keep it that way). Three, the experience hadn’t been a total loss because I’d invented some unforgettable recipes: Keep-Your-Big-Mouth-Shut Scones and I-Learned-My-Lesson Lemon Curd.

The Sullivan’s Island cop would dismiss me as a loon if I told him that Bill Clinton had strangled a woman. But I’d be in a mess if I admitted that I’d quarreled with a woman and now that woman was missing.

So was my phone. If it was in Barb’s driveway, all I had to do was call myself and listen for the ringtone. I tapped in my number, then I set the receiver on the table and ran out the front door. I waited for the quirky notes of The Twilight Zone to rise up, but I only heard clanging wind chimes, thunder, and distant surf.

I pushed out a long sigh, and air whistled through the thin gap between my front teeth. Emerson ran onto the porch, clutching a backpack in one arm, a stuffed hedgehog in the other. She’d changed into a blue gingham dress. On her feet were red shoes, as if she’d been off to see the wizard but took a wrong turn.

Did you hear any strange noises tonight? I asked. A vacuum cleaner? Screams?

You are so weird. I want to leave. Now.

I need to call Coop and tell him what’s happened.

Do that, and I’ll bite you.

We walked to my convertible. She kicked sand while I put up the top. Minutes later, as we headed toward Isle of Palms, my headache shrank to a dull flicker. I cut my gaze to Emerson, studying her profile. She had a low forehead, a turned-up nose, and wide lips. The Philpots had distinctive features—high foreheads, bulging green eyes, and butterfly ears. Emerson didn’t look like them. Except for her gray eyes, she didn’t resemble Coop. Was he her daddy or not? And why hadn’t he told me about her?

She stuck out her tongue. Stop looking at me, you skeezer.

My name is Teeny.

Duh. It’s a stupid name. And you live in a stupid house. Mrs. Philpot said you painted it with Pepto-Bismol.

I pinched the steering wheel. How do you know where I live?

We drove by your house a hundred-million times a day. Emerson tapped her braids together. I saw you walking a hideous mutt.

I pushed my shoe against the gas pedal a little too hard, and the car shot forward. They’d been spying on me? My dog isn’t hideous, I said.

His face is all smooshed in.

It’s supposed to look that way. He’s an English bulldog.

I know what he is. But what are you? A midget? You should trade the bulldog for a Yorkie. The next time you walk around the Battery, you won’t look silly. Mrs. Philpot said that a small woman needs a small dog. The scale is better.

Thanks for the advice, I said.

"Want more? Get braces on your teeth. And cut your hair. It’s so huge it deserves its own zip code. Mrs. Philpot said that you’re a dead ringer for Cousin Itt, that furry character in The Addams Family."

I’ve been called that before. I shrugged. I’m only 5' 1¾ tall and I’ve got big, bad blond hair. But why do you call your mom Mrs. Philpot?"

Emerson lifted a braid and sliced it through the air, as if chopping my question into little pieces. I wasn’t ready to give up. How old are you? Ten?

I’ll be eleven on December twenty-third. And you’re not invited to my party.

Happy Birthday in advance, I said.

I bet Mrs. Philpot won’t come to my party. Emerson slumped down in her seat. "I ought to charge her with child abandonment. I saw that on Laura Norder."

What’s that?

Are you serious? It’s a TV show. Cops, lawyers, bad guys. It got cancelled, but you can catch the reruns.

"You mean Law & Order?" I asked.

That’s exactly what I said. Her chest puffed up. You better not make fun of me. I’m a straight A student at Chatham Academy.

I was still peeved over her remarks about Sir, so I said, Is that a reform school?

She rolled her eyes. A private academy in Florida. Near Naples. I live there year-round. I have my own quarter horse, and lots and lots of friends.

Sounds like a cool place. I glanced at her. Her face was impassive. Behind her, the dark landscape whirled by, dotted with lights from beach houses.

Nobody but country skanks say cool, she said. And keep your eyes on the road. I don’t want to die in this butt-ugly car.

I put both hands on the wheel and stared straight ahead. The headlights cut two cones onto the pavement. Everything about Barb was an enigma. She was missing. She’d sent her daughter to a boarding school. Had mothering put a crimp in her style?

I turned into Coop’s long, sandy driveway. Lightning flickered over the dunes, brightening the gray, clapboard house. The square windows blazed with a honeyed glow. Thank goodness Coop was home. I let out a huge breath and parked behind his red truck. He might be an asshole liar, but he’d know what to do.

Emerson scrambled out of my car, dragging her backpack and hedgehog. She trudged through the sandy yard to the front door. I walked behind her, taking huge gulps of air. A storm was blowing in, and I smelled the faint tinge of sulphur.

From inside the house, I heard a deep bark, then Coop opened the door. His eyes were a striking mix of gray and blue. That’s the first thing I always notice about him. They skipped from me to Emerson.

What’s going on? He folded his arms and his white t-shirt stretched over his wide shoulders, showing the outline of his deltoids. A Pepto-Bismol bottle jutted up from the hip pocket of his sweat pants.

I was just about to ask you the same thing, I said.

Coop looked troubled. His face was finely-chiseled, with a square, masculine jaw. When he was happy, his whole face became a soft oval, but fear hardened his bones.

His giant dog skidded into the foyer. T-Bone was a giant mixed breed, a rescue with wiry, taffy-colored fur, a white belly, and intelligent amber eyes. His head reached Coop’s elbow, and Coop is 5' 10". T-Bone sniffed my outfit. Dammit, I’d forgotten that I was wearing