by Tamar Myers
“To get some air. I told you it was hot in here.”
She grunted. “Here,” she said, and set a clear plastic jug on the floor. “Your water.”
“Thanks.”
She turned, took several steps, and turned again. “It won’t do you any good to shout for help. I have one of the deepest backyards South of Broad. Besides which, everybody’s got their air-conditioners running. No one will hear you—except for me. If I hear you—well, then our time together is up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you being sarcastic again, Abby?”
“No, ma’am.”
I waited once more until the sound of her heels faded away. Then I shoved the bed in front of the door, and lay down to await my fate.
26
“It was less than eight hours,” Greg said. He had his arm around me and gave me a squeeze that would have crumbled the bones of a woman who consumed fewer dairy products.
We were seated on a French Provincial loveseat in the Rob-Bobs’ house, having just eaten a surprisingly edible meal prepared by Bob. Everything on the menu was recognizable except for the Twice-Baked Eel, which was discreetly hidden in cute little pastry puffs. I’d never had that dish before but, to my untrained palate, it seemed a little “off.”
I was well aware that I’d told my story many times, but I felt a need to tell it one more time. After all, I’d nearly lost my life. Surely that was a more important subject of conversation than the tourist couple who stripped and walked naked down King Street to protest what they called price-gouging.
“Well, it seemed like forever to me,” I said. “Days, literally. The crazy bitch came back several times to rant and rail about how y’all weren’t responding to her ransom demands. Once she even waved a scissors in my face. Threatened to poke my eyes out. Now that’s gouging.”
Mama, seated across from us, shuddered. “Please, Abby, can’t we talk about something else?”
“We could talk about my leg,” C.J. said. The big gal had her leg propped up on an authentic Turkish ottoman, one that dated back to the earliest days of the Ottoman Empire. The leg was encased in a cast that sported more graffiti than the entire New York subway system.
I sighed. C.J. had a story to tell as well; one that had also been told a million times. But as long as she didn’t make any detours to Shelby, I was willing to share the limelight with a friend.
“Tell us about your leg, dear,” I said.
C.J. took a deep breath. “Well, when Dmitri came back to your house with the ring tied to his collar, I had just gotten off work. Greg wasn’t home yet and Mozella was off gallivanting—”
“I was at church,” Mama said, twirling her pearls in agitation. “I had a committee meeting.”
“Anyway, I knew something had to be wrong. At first I thought of calling the police—”
“Which you should have done,” Greg said.
C.J. squirmed. “But I couldn’t be sure something was wrong. Abby does funny things like that, you know. Now where was I?”
“Calling the kettle black?” I suggested.
“The cat and the ring,” Bob boomed. He and Rob had some kind of party to attend later in the evening, and I could tell they were beginning to get anxious for us to leave. They hadn’t even bothered to drag out the expensive liqueurs.
C.J. nodded. “Yes, Dmitri. Well, I took him back outdoors and put him down. Abby, I told him that if you were in any trouble, he should lead me to you. But all he wanted to do was rub against my legs and purr. Finally, I had to bribe him with the promise of all the catnip he wanted.
“That seemed to work, but he sure as shooting didn’t lead me on a straight course. I think we meandered through every backyard in Charleston. Honestly, Abby, you should teach that cat—”
“Please,” I begged, “just finish the story.”
“Well, we finally ended up in that crazy Mrs. Riffle’s backyard. Suddenly Dmitri bounded up an oak tree like the catnip I’d promised him was somewhere at the top. I tried to follow as far as I could, but he disappeared into a dormer the size of a gnat’s navel. It was when I tried to get back down that I fell and broke my leg.”
Mama stood. “And then our intrepid heroine crawled to a neighbor’s house and summoned help. Well, this has been a delightful evening, but I really must go. I hope y’all will excuse me.”
Then everyone stood except for Greg and me. Something was rotten in Denmark, and it wasn’t just Twice-Baked Eel.
“But,” I protested, “C.J. hasn’t even gotten to the part where the mayor called to congratulate her. Or how the police found all the tiles safe and sound in one of the other attic rooms, along with a bunch of other valuable stuff.”
“Mayor shmayor,” Mama said. “We can’t keep the boys up all night.”
“Where is it you must go, Mama?”
Mama’s pearls became a blur of white. “Abby, some things are best left alone.”
“Out with it, Mama!”
She hung her head, like a relay runner who’d dropped the torch in the last seconds of the race. “Gloria Krantz has invited us to a party.”
“Who?”
C.J. picked up the torch. “You know, Abby. She’s my neighbor. The one you call Gladys.”
I looked from face to guilty face. “You were all invited?”
Greg gave my shoulder another bone-crushing squeeze. “Not me, hon.”
“But she didn’t invite me?”
“Abby, you don’t even like her.”
“That’s not the point,” I wailed. “All my friends are invited, even my very own mama, and—”
“Abby,” Rob said gently, “we could stay home if that will make you feel better.”
I considered that for a brief, selfish moment. Besides a fleeting feeling of power, I had nothing to gain by such childishness. The repercussions were bound to be endless, given that Mama has the memory of an elephant on ginseng. But more importantly, it had just occurred to me why Bob’s eel seemed a little off; it was the fishiest smelling thing in the room. For the first time in months, my sweet baboo didn’t smell like a stranded tuna at low tide.
Rob read my mind and tossed me his keys. “You two lock up.”
“There are fresh sheets on the bed in the guest room,” Bob brayed.
“Ooh, ooh,” C.J. hooted.
“TMI!” Mama cried, although she has no idea what those initials stand for.
It’s none of your business, but we went home first. Then we locked Mama and C.J. out. Gloria Krantz’s party was no match for ours.
Acknowledgments
My limited knowledge of Portuguese tiles was acquired during a trip to Portugal. I was privileged to visit many castles and palaces, as well as the fabulous National Museum of Azulejo in Lisbon.
I would like to thank members of the Charleston Authors Society for their support and encouragement, particularly Mary Alice Monroe and Nina Bruhns.
About the Author
TAMAR MYERS is the author of eight previous Den of Antiquity mysteries: Larceny and Old Lace; Gilt by Association; The Ming and I; So Faux, So Good; Baroque and Desperate; and Estate of Mind; A Penny Urned; Nightmare in Shining Armor; and Splendor in the Glass. She is the author of the Magdalena Yoder series, is an avid antiques collector, and lives in the Carolinas.
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Other Den of Antiquity Mysteries by
Tamar Myers
from Avon Books
LARCENY AND OLD LACE
GILT BY ASSOCIATION
THE MING AND I
SO FAUX, SO GOOD
BAROQUE AND DESPERATE
ESTATE OF MIND
A PENNY URNED
NIGHTMARE IN SHINING ARMOR
SPLENDOR IN THE GLASS
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
TILES AND TRIBULATIONS. Copyright © 2003 by Tamar Myers. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © JANUARY 2007 ISBN: 9780061859908
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