No Place Like Home

By Suzanna Myatt Harvill

Chrissy Landress and four of her friends are the victims of a buyout of their local telephone company in the small town of Chinquapin, Fl. They lost their jobs and are quickly running out of money. They’ve all moved into Chrissy’s ancestral home, Magnolia Hall.
The friends have their backs to the wall and must think outside the box…extremely outside the box…in order to survive. They decide to open a high class gentlemen’s club.
They must keep the operation of the brothel under the radar, but even with all the clandestine machinations, word spreads, and the club prospers. Everything is copacetic until a local VIP dies in the bordello.
The club workers must cover up the death of the guest by making his demise appear the result of a car accident.
Chrissy’s boyfriend, the local sheriff Hank Albritton, has turned a blind eye to his lady love’s business endeavor, but he discovers the guest was murdered. Where, how, and by whom is a mystery.
Could the killer be a member of the Magnolia Hall staff…or another guest?
The killing attracts national attention to the plight of many American workers who lost their jobs during the Great Recession, and the women and men of Magnolia Hall attain celebrity status, but more scandals loom on the horizon for Chrissy and her friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663230928

Suzanna Myatt Harvill

Suzanna Myatt Harvill is an author of suspense stories with a Southern flair and attitude. Writer’s Digest award winner. She is the author of the Shadow Bayou series and the comic mystery No Place Like Home

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Chinquapin, Florida, 2010, Height of the Great Recession

IF MAYOR BUFORD T. Pettibone, Sr., had any idea that affixing his signature to the document lying on his desk would be tantamount to sealing his fate, it’s likely he would have balled up the paper and tossed it into the waste basket.

I thought you’d be interested in seein’ that permit personal-like. Standing before the mayor’s desk, a piece of furniture the size of the flight deck of the USS George H.W. Bush, Purvis Smedley flashed his huge teeth in an equine grin and rocked back on his size twelves.

Hizzoner shifted his bulk in the oversized, leather executive chair, his tiny feet dangling several inches above the floor, and reread the business license permit application. The mayor toyed with his expensive, old fashioned fountain pen while his subordinate waited. Pettibone never did anything without careful deliberation…and this permit needed pondering.

You gonna sign it, T-Bone? Purvis called the mayor by his nickname. Seeing as how Smedley was the head of the Chinquapin Business Permit Department, as well as the mayor’s third cousin on his mother’s side, and also seeing as how the two men had been involved in numerous semi-illegal shenanigans over the years, they had no reason to stand on ceremony with each other.

I don’t know, Purve. Pettibone pursed his lips and perused the paper again, lifting his graying eyebrows toward his sparsely-haired pate. Chrissy Landress is applying for a business permit to open a…uh…a gentlemen’s club, that right?

Ain’t that a kick in the pants? Haw haw, Smedley brayed. Don’t suppose it’s like the Moose or the Elks Club, do you? One o’ them places named after critters with antlers. He waggled both hands over his head, simulating horns.

Hee hee. T-Bone eyed the other man over his glasses and tittered his high-pitched giggle. Sounds more like it’s supposed to appeal to another sort of horny creature.

Both men snuffled at their own humor.

Still grinning, Pettibone cleared his throat and got back to business. Well, doesn’t surprise me that our elegant Miz Landress is getting into some sort of business for herself. Juney Parks, over at the community college, told me Chrissy took a couple courses in starting and managing your own small business.

Not much went on in Chinquapin the mayor didn’t know about. He stuck the pen back into its holder and drummed his manicured fingers on the desktop, while he studied the verbiage in the permit. You know she and those other people she’s got living in her house out there at Magnolia Hall have been out of work for at least a couple o’ years now. Wonder just what she’s got in mind with this ‘gentlemen’s club’ thing. He ran a hand over his comb-over, patting the scanty hairs into place. I just don’t know about this…but still….

Yeah. It kinda caught my attention. Not somethin’ you see ever’ day, least not here in Chinquapin. Purvis shoved his hands into his pockets and jingled his change, bending his knees and rocking back on his heels again. He was a tall, rawboned man. His graying black hair stuck up in tufts, and both his ears and his nose were long. These attributes, along with his oversized choppers, gave him the appearance of an amiable mule. He nodded toward the document. Notice it says only a cover charge will be levied, which will include complimentary food and drinks, no need for a food and liquor license.

"True. She won’t actually be sellin’ food or drink. Pettibone pondered. Says the place will provide an upscale social and business venue for customers seeking to hold private meetings and social events. I like the ‘upscale’ part. Could be a good thing for the town…different anyway…something new."

I guess she and them other folks livin’ with her are like a lotta people who got laid off when Mid Florida Telephone Company got bought out by that big outfit outta Colorado. They’s stuck between the rock and the hard place, doin’ whatever they can to survive.

I know that’s right. That company really hurt the town’s economy. One of our major employers. And laying people off had a ripple effect, causing several local companies to close up shop. T-Bone frowned. My bank’s had to foreclose on a number of buildings because of that. In addition to being the mayor, Pettibone was the owner of the Chinquapin Community Bank. The foreclosures resulted in a lot of cussing and several threats against Buford’s life, but he didn’t figure anybody would have the gall to actually attack the town’s leading citizen…him.

Purvis hee-hawed another laugh. You don’t reckon this here gentlemen’s club’s gonna have some o’ them bunny type chicks, do you? You know the ones wearin’ them skimpy outfits with the little rabbit tails? His lips stretched wide over an amazing expanse of yellowing ivory. I wouldn’t mind seein’ somethin’ like that. Long as Tonya Sue didn’t find out. Tonya Sue was Purvis’s wife and the choir director at the First Baptist Church.

Hee hee. Wouldn’t want Lawanda to find that out either. The mayor’s wife was a mover and a shaker in her own right, heading up several local ladies’ service and social groups. Here in Chinquapin, a deer tail or maybe a possum tail would be more fitting.

Purvis guffawed, jingled, and rocked some more. You gonna sign that license for Miss Chrissy, are you?

Well, as I see it, any new enterprise could help Chinquapin. Might bring in a few visitors to spend some money. Pettibone reached for his fountain pen again. What can it hurt? Hee, hee.

Purvis snickered. You don’t reckon Miss Chrissy’s plannin’ on runnin’ something besides a place where men come to eat and drink and do business deals, do you?

Pen poised above the paper, Buford looked over his glasses again. Like what?

1

"A WHOREHOUSE? YOU have got to be kidding!"

A gentlemen’s club…I’m talking about opening a high class gentlemen’s club, Chrissy Landress corrected her best friend Mary-Grace Carruthers.

Mary-Grace huffed and rolled her eyes upward, her face registering disdain for her friend’s proposal. She shook her head and shifted her position in the burgundy and gold striped chair. Her navy dress crept up her thighs, and she tugged it down. That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard of. Nudging her Jimmy Choo stilettos aside with one bare, aching toe, she bent down to massage her blistered feet, grimacing against the pain.

Has anybody got any better ideas? Chrissy flung out her arm to include her other three former coworkers and current housemates, assembled in the large, sumptuous living room of her home, a white Victorian pile known as Magnolia Hall. The early spring afternoon slipped toward dusk, and the glow from a couple of lamps spilled in golden pools on polished table tops.

The house took its name from the towering magnolia trees lining the shell driveway that curled from the county road. The elegant historic mansion was the Landress family’s ancestral home and dated from the late eighteen hundreds. Over the years the house and outbuildings had been added onto and updated, in keeping with modern tastes and technology, but the ambience remained Nineteenth Century South. The estate encompassed several acres of manicured property and wild woodlands, bordering on a lake behind the house. The place was expensive to maintain, and Chrissy was just about broke.

Well? Chrissy took in her housemates’ expressions, hoping somebody would come up with a survival plan that did not include high priced prostitution, even if nobody wanted to call it that. Dressed in faded jeans and a cream silk shirt, her caramel blond hair pulled into a pony tail high on her head, she maintained an air of unruffled Southern elegance, despite the subject under discussion.

Sprawled in a floral-upholstered easy chair adjacent to the sofa where Chrissy sat, Bethel Sauls, bare feet propped on the matching ottoman, plucked a couple of notes on the guitar on her lap. I’ve picked up a few dollars singin’ and playin’at local clubs, but nothin’ to brag about. And the money I got damn sure hasn’t made up for bein’ hit on by a bunch of liquored-up goobers. She shrugged and lapsed into silence. Given her usual opinionated, shoot-from-the-hip personality, her desultory tone was a sure sign she was as stymied as anybody else. She set the guitar on the floor and picked at the threads of her fashionably ripped jeans. Her sigh of dejection pulled her yellow tee shirt taut across her full breasts.

Jarrod Jackson sat beside Chrissy on the rose damask sofa. He leaned back and rested one arm across the back of the couch as he sipped from a tall glass of pina colada. He’d mixed up an extra-large batch of the rum concoction for the emergency meeting. His bemused expression revealed his mind was running on the same track as Chrissy’s, wondering if any of the others would contribute an alternative solution to their financial dilemma. As he’d confided to Chrissy when they first began to ponder this venture, he might have peddled his wares to the highest bidder in his misspent youth, but at twenty-eight years old, he found the notion somewhat less than appealing. However, a man had to do what a man had to do in order to survive in the present economy.

The fifth member of the household, Lavey Robinson, sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the marble-faced fireplace. Bare of foot and clad in a pair of cutoff jeans and a sleeveless plaid shirt, she twisted her mouth in a moue of consternation, then barked a short laugh. A ‘gentlemen’s club’ my hind foot…more likely a meeting place for a bunch of rich, horny old farts looking for some nookie. She chuckled again and shook her head, causing her carelessly wadded black topknot to bounce. How the hell did we wind up in this fix?

I don’t care what you call it; a whorehouse is just that, a whorehouse. Mary-Grace was adamant. She continued rubbing her battered feet. The idea’s ridiculous. I just can’t see us doing something like that.

You have any better ideas for keeping a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs? Chrissy challenged her.

The two women gave each other looks that bordered on combative.

Mary-Grace was the first to back off. What if we end up in jail? She pointed out.

We won’t actually be doing anything illegal. Food, drinks, entertainment…movies, TV football, or whatever. Just a place for men to hang together and hold meetings or socialize. She wagged her head. Everything will be included in a cover charge. And this charge will be steep to keep out the riffraff. We’ll cater to gentlemen who demand and expect discretion, Chrissy explained, her tone leaning heavily toward what she hoped sounded like patience and reason. The money we receive from our reservations-only clientele will cover the costs of supplies and expenses, and we’ll split the proceeds.

Lavey sipped her drink and nodded. We sure Lord need some money coming in.

Encouraged, Chrissy went on, These men will be sophisticated, the kind of men who understand they will be expected to leave hefty tips, and that money also will be split among us. There will be no actual payment for any sort of sexual favors, no actual prostitution as described by law.

Mary-Grace opened her mouth to say something else, but Chrissy raised her hand to stop her. I’ve already checked into the licensing and all the legalities with my brother-in-law, Stewart, to keep our butts out of the crack. She bobbed her head and drew her lips into a flat line. We’ll be covered. Trust me on that.

Mary-Grace gave her gal pal another doubtful look and slumped in her seat. I just don’t know. Her voice sounded like her resolve was crumbling, and Chrissy jumped into the opening like a hen pouncing on a juicy bug.

Look. Since our nice friendly little telephone company sold us down the river, we’ve been out of work, and for some of us, that’s the only work we know how to do...jobs that pay decently anyway. Our departments were closed, and our jobs were sent to Butt Fuck, Egypt, or we were replaced by people from the home office. They left us flapping in the breeze, she went on, ticking points off on her fingers. We’ve run out of Unemployment, we’ve all used up our chicken-shit severance pay, and none of us has found a job. She picked up her cocktail from the coffee table and raised her glass in a sardonic salute. I don’t know about y’all, but my savings are just about tapped out, too. My back is against the wall, and I have to do something to keep a roof over our heads. She cut her eyes at the young man beside her. What do you say, J.J.?

He studied the gleaming surface of the coffee table, his face a mask of neutrality. He and Chrissy had carefully worked out this scheme over the past three months, without confiding in the others. We’ve got go do something to help ourselves, y’all.

Bethel retrieved her glass from the side table and held it in one hand, running the rim around her bottom lip. Her eyes seemed focused somewhere between her knees and her poppy red toenails. With both elbows resting on the chair arms, she twisted a russet curl around a finger of the hand not occupied with the glass. I hate to throw a monkey wrench into the works, y’all, but what about Hizzoner Buford T. Pettibone? Somehow I just can’t see the mayor of our fair city goin’ along with our runnin’ a cat-house right under his nose. Same goes for our illustrious city council members.

I’ll handle T-Bone and the rest of the good ol’ boys if it comes to that, Chrissy said. We might have to toss out the occasional freebie to keep the authorities off our backs.

Bethel made a face. Old Buford looks like Porky Pig. I hate to think about bein’ on bottom.

But he bathes regularly, Lavey pointed out.

There you go. That’s the attitude I’m looking for, Chrissy said.

Lavey held her drink on the floor between her crossed legs and moved it back and forth between her hands, creating a pattern of wet rings on the cold marble hearth. Well, here’s something else we haven’t mentioned. She cocked her head at her landlady. What about Hank?

Hank Albritton was the Chinquapin County Sheriff…and the enterprising Miz Landress’s main squeeze.

There is that. Chrissy gave a dismissive wave of her hand. To tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m not sure how I’m going to handle Hank about this. I’ll come up with something.

Bethel rolled out a belly laugh. You’ll handle Hank the same way women’ve been handlin’ men ever since Eve gave Adam a taste of that juicy, red apple. Which is exactly what this little enterprise is goin’ to be all about, regardless of what we call it.

Mary-Grace looked steadily at Chrissy. She moved her head imperceptibly back and forth but said nothing.

Chrissy drank her cocktail and studied her companions, leaving them to silently ponder their predicament for a few moments. Look, y’all. I’ve been putting aside a portion of the room and board y’all’ve been paying me, and I have enough stashed to get us up and running in this business. She pitched her proposal like she was confronting a group of hard-nosed executives, a function she had performed often in her former career as a telephone company manager.

J.J. spoke up. Like Chrissy said, does anybody have any better ideas? I mean I haven’t seen anybody turning down any job offers. I know I haven’t. His voice was mild and reasonable as he made eye contact with each of the women. He’d been the phone company’s Public Relations Manager until he was replaced by an employee transferred from the new owner’s home office. Experience had taught him when to push and when to gently nudge. It was nudging time.

A breath laden with gloom slipped between Mary-Grace’s lips, and she sagged against the chair’s cushioned fabric and wiggled her blistered bare toes in the rug. I’ve walked all over Tampa and even had an interview in Brooksville today. The jobs for people like me are just not out there. She gave another slow shake of her head. And I’m being told I’m overqualified for nearly everything. Just because I’ve got some education, and I’ve worked my whole life. She cast a jaundiced eye at her four friends. And now y’all are seriously contemplating opening a whorehouse? She ended her comment on a questioning note.

We all got screwed in our last jobs, so it won’t be anything new, Lavey said. We get into this gig, and we might even get kissed occasionally.

J.J. snuffled a snicker of agreement.

You’d think, with me being related to half of Chinquapin, I’d be able to find something, Lavey went on. But all my relatives who have businesses are fully staffed, and I don’t expect them to fire somebody to make a place for me. I worked at my cousin Ruthie’s barbeque place a few times when she was shorthanded, and I filled in doing secretarial crap for Uncle Fred at his plumbing business while Shirelle was out having her last baby.

Then there was your half day stint at your cousin Ellamay’s daycare. J.J. shot her a cheeky grin.

Don’t remind me. Lavey curled her lip. After the third brat puked on me, I was outta there.

I haven’t fared much better, the male member of the crew remarked. I tried coaching water aerobics for a bunch of old ladies at Peaceful Oaks Retirement Village.

Lavey chortled and put her hand over her mouth to keep from spraying pina colada across the room. We know how that worked out, she managed to choke out.

What happened? Mary-Grace asked. I must have missed something.

Two…let’s say…octogenarians got the hots for me and managed to pull my bathing suit off in the pool, he explained. They got into a fight over my goods and nearly drowned each other…and me. The staff had to call the paramedics. He shook his head. And I got canned before I collected my first paycheck for being too ‘blatantly sexual.’ Whatever the hell that means, when you’ve got a gay-boy in a pool with a bunch of horny grannies.

You just got those old ladies too hot and bothered, sugar, Lavey teased. The staff was afraid you’d cause one of the old biddies to have a coronary and croak, and the place’d get sued.

Bethel rumbled another guffaw from her semi-supine position. I know that’s right. You were a victim of your own charms, baby boy.

J.J. put a hand over his heart and patted the little alligator on the front of his pine green tee shirt. Why was I cursed with this fatal gorgeousness?

Not to mention humility, Chrissy said. Well, as y’all know, I tried my hand at substitute teaching, but I wasn’t allowed to carry my gun, and there was no damn way was I going to enter that high school unless I was packing. She gave a mock shudder. Teenagers sure aren’t what they were when I was that age. Those barbarians scared the crap out of me.

Well, hell, let’s do it. I mean why not? Bethel pushed herself upright and tossed her red curls. Every one of those losers I’ve been out with since Crandall died has expected me to give it away free. Tellin’ me I’m sittin’ on a gold mine or some such shit as that. Maybe I ought to use it to make a livin’ while it’s still functionin’. She twisted around in the chair and swung her bare feet onto the floor. She picked up the guitar and strummed a chord. Taa Daa!

Mary-Grace groaned.

You need attitude adjustment, my dear. J.J. poured a drink for her. Mary-Grace had been the last to arrive at the meeting and waived his initial offer of a cocktail, saying she was so tired the alcohol would probably put her to sleep. He got up from his seat and took the glass to her; then carried the pitcher over to Bethel and refreshed her drink as well. He gestured with the pitcher toward Lavey, who put her hand over her own glass.

I’m good, she told him.

He sat back down and topped off his and Chrissy’s glasses.

It’s not like we’re a bunch of blushing virgins. Chrissy got the group back on track, shifting her body forward on the sofa, as if to draw her audience closer. J.J. was already onboard for the venture, and Bethel sounded convinced to give the business a try. She leaned toward them and looked meaningfully into each pair of eyes trained on her.

Y’all know my grandma left me this big old house, with no way to pay the upkeep. I mean she left me some money, too, but it’s not like it’s going to last in perpetuity with no cash coming in. We’re all running dry. Without some cash flow, we’re going to be out on the street. She waved a hand toward the open French doors leading out to the screened verandah that ran the length of the house. I can hardly afford to run the air conditioning year ‘round.

While they’d been talking, the sun had set, gilding the main salon and reflecting the light from the mirrors on the walls. This was Chrissy’s favorite room and her favorite time of day. Tiny glittering rainbows of color reflected from the brass and crystal wall sconces and chandelier, dancing on the polished surfaces of the antique tables placed about the large salon. At this time of day, the old drawing room assumed a life of its own, as if sprinkled with fairy dust, transporting its occupants back to a gentler time, a time when ladies and gentlemen of class and breeding would never dream of discussing something so unsavory as bordellos.

This was Chrissy’s home, and she had to protect it. Tears filled her blue eyes at the thought of losing her ancestral home.

On this particular evening, a pleasant breeze wafted the heady aroma of gardenias into the room. Many people in the South don’t like the scent of the flowers that once had been used at funerals to mask the smell of death, but Chrissy loved the shiny-leafed plants, with their beautiful white blooms. She found the smell exotic and intoxicating and felt like they imparted the air of old fashioned Southern charm she intended to cultivate in her business.

Bethel’s snort interrupted Chrissy’s reverie. Every single job I’ve applied for, they wanted to know if I speak Spanish. I mean what the hell do I need Spanish for to do computer draftin’…and I’m an expert at that? I could do it with my tongue cut out. She’d put the guitar down again and sat spraddle-legged on the edge of the chair. It’s a hell of a note in the US of A when you’re a native-born citizen and you can’t get a job if you can’t speak a foreign language.

I know that’s right, Mary-Grace agreed. "But you can get a job without being able to speak English. Talk about discrimination. She leaned forward and ran her fingers through her long dark hair and stared down at the floor. I’ve about run out of options, and I was good at my job. Lavey can tell you, I knew every aspect of all the jobs in the Service Center when I was the supervisor." The last words came out stifled by a sob threatening to well up in her throat, and tears filled her brown eyes. She dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of mascara on her porcelain skin.

We were all good at our jobs, sweetheart. I know I kept the Commercial Department running like a Swiss clock, but it didn’t matter in the end, Chrissy commiserated. We were expendable.

Only the bottom line counts with a big corporation, not people, J.J. said. We’re not human beings to those bastards. We’re just collateral, disposable collateral.

Chrissy dabbed her eyes with one of the cocktail napkins J.J. had provided. We’re all in the same boat, but whining isn’t going to put food in front of us. We have to do something to help ourselves.

Mary-Grace raised her eyes to her best friend and managed to quirk up the corners of her lips. "Think outside the box, huh? Extremely outside the box."

Chrissy returned her a sad excuse for a smile and shrugged. I’m at the end of my rope. We all are.

My mama’d kill me if she knew I was thinking about becoming a ‘ho. Lavey gave a mirthless laugh and slugged down the rest of her drink. She held out her glass to J.J. I think I’m ready for another one now. I gotta get my mind wrapped around this notion. Me, a church-going woman, with a preacher for an uncle, working in a house of ill repute.

You know what they say about desperate times.

Lavey raised her eyebrows at Chrissy.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, Chrissy clarified.

Well, my times are getting pretty damn desperate. I’ve cashed in my last CD. J.J. refreshed Lavey’s drink, then emptied the pitcher into his own glass.

Look y’all. I’m not suggesting we become permanent prostitutes, Chrissy told them. This is just a little something to tide us over until the economy picks up, and we can get real jobs. Her eyes danced over her friends. I’m not hearing anybody making any alternative suggestions.

Again, silence fell over the group.

Mary-Grace took a sip of her drink. She turned to Chrissy, who had offered her asylum when she lost her home after her divorce from a high-powered attorney and then lost her job. Just how do you propose we get into the whorehouse business?

That’s where J.J.’s public relations skills come in handy. A new briskness sparked Chrissy’s tone. She could feel the others starting to show some real interest in her idea…actually, her and J.J.’s idea.

Lavey cut her gray-green eyes at the only man in the room. You and Chrissy’ve had your pretty blond heads together on this caper already, my man?

He shrugged. Chrissy and I’ve been talking about it. And I do have a lot of contacts.

Ain’t they mostly gay-boys? Bethel gave him a baleful look. "It’s not like they’d be beatin’ a path to the door."

I know lots of men on both sides of the fence and any number who straddle it, he told her, flashing a roguish grin that displayed his dimples. I know lots of men with money to toss around. Many of those men would enjoy availing themselves of our unique services, discretely of course. There’s a market out there. He held his hands out palm upward. "Et voila. Here we are, y’all."

Lot o’ them white boys like a little chocolate for a change. Lavey waggled her eyebrows and chewed on the corner of her lower lip. Y’all wouldn’t believe the number of white men who’ve come on to me over the years.

J.J.’s blue eyes twinkled with deviltry. You’re chocolate with a heavy dose of vanilla, thanks to your white daddy.

That seems to make it even more intriguing. Lavey grinned at him. She was a light shade of tan, called café au lait in the South, with wavy black hair and fine, delicate features that matched her slender, five-foot-two-inch frame. You know all about crossing the lines into taboo territory yourself, old son.

Look at us. Chrissy held her arms wide. We’ve got most bases covered. Mary-Grace and I are just a tad past forty…but still looking damn good, if I do say so. Bethel is just getting into her thirties. J.J. and Lavey are in their twenties. We’ve got three white women, one more or less black woman, and a drop dead gorgeous gay man.

J.J. hooted. We can advertise ourselves as a full-service sportin’ house.

A sexual smorgasbord. Mary-Grace’s tone was dry. She knocked back the rest of her drink and placed the empty glass on the table beside her chair. Here I am forty-one years old, contemplating a change of career…becoming a whore. She cut her eyes from one to the other of her friends, and a visible quiver ran through her. I don’t know, y’all. Being handled by all those strange men. She shook herself like a dog fresh from a dip in a cold pond and grimaced. Her voice was heavy with dismay. I don’t think I can do this. Y’all do what you want to, but I just can’t see me prostituting myself, and that’s exactly what this venture, as you call it, amounts to. I’m going to have to find a real job and maybe another place to live. She picked up her shoes from the floor and rose to her bare, blistered feet. It’s just…just immoral.

Chrissy heard the tightness in Mary-Grace’s voice and could see the tall brunette’s eyes shining wetly as she turned and stalked out of the living room, her head held high despite her circumstances. She felt a dull heaviness in her midsection. She couldn’t bear to lose her best friend, but she had to do something to help herself and the others…and so-called morality be damned.

2

MARY-GRACE HAS BARELY spoken to any of us for the past week, Lavey said to Chrissy, as they stashed groceries in the large pantry just off the kitchen. And she hasn’t eaten hardly anything. The girl’s looking bad. She twisted her lips and raised her eyebrows. Real bad.

The two women had just returned from Publix grocery store with a week’s supply of food. Both wore shorts, tee shirts, and sandals…typical Florida shopping attire for both sexes. Lavey had pulled her hair into twin pony tails on either side of her head, secured with red-beaded bands that matched her shirt, while Chrissy had coiled her blond locks onto the back of her head with a purple butterfly clip.

Chrissy paused and tossed a can of petite-diced tomatoes back and forth between her hands as she pondered Lavey’s comment. She hadn’t missed the circles under Mary-Grace’s brown eyes and the pallor of her naturally pale complexion. She was probably more worried about her friend than any of the others were. They’d been best friends for close to twenty years. You know she’s made it clear she really doesn’t want to join in with opening a gentlemen’s club.

Lavey huffed. I know. I’m not crazy about the idea either. Neither is anyone else, but what are we gonna do?

She says she has concerns with the morality of my proposal.

Shit. Like the rest of us don’t? The mulatto woman wagged her head. None of us has ever been exactly what you might call the town whore…including J.J.

I know what you mean, Chrissy agreed. I might be forty-three years old, but I can still count my bed partners on the fingers of one hand and have fingers left over. And I happen to know the same can be said for Mary-Grace.

Lavey shrugged and handed Chrissy another can of tomatoes. I’m a little more experienced than that, but I’ve never been what you’d call a good time girl; neither has Bethel from what she’s told me. With all that red hair and being built like a brick outhouse, she’s had to fend off a lot of would-be lover boys who think she’d be easy pickin’s.

I know that’s right. Chrissy took the can and laughed. "As for J.J., he doesn’t advertise, but he is a man, so it’s different. From things he has said, I think most of his alley-catting is behind him. I get the idea that he has always been pretty discriminating."

There was nothing right about what that stinking company did to us when they put us out on the street after years of service, so now we have to do whatever we can to survive.

Chrissy put the can on the shelf and took another one Lavey handed her. Being a prostitute, regardless of how we pretty up the term, doesn’t appeal to me either. But neither does starving, and we don’t qualify for any relief programs, seeing as how we’ve all worked all our lives. On top of that, I’m a property owner. I own this property free and clear. It was the last of my grandparents’ estate. I don’t want to borrow against it and risk losing it.

I can’t blame you for that. Lavey gave a short sniff. "I guess I could qualify for some sort of handout, seeing as how I’m part black and I don’t own any property, but be damned if I’m lowering myself to that. I wasn’t raised on welfare, and I’m not going