by Tamar Myers
Greg nodded. “Abby, the investigator would like to ask you a few questions.”
“Now?”
Investigator Sharp stepped forward. “Yes, Mrs. Timberlake. It’s routine in situations where foul play may have been involved.”
“May have been involved? Look, Tweetie was definitely murdered.”
“Well, that is for forensics to determine, isn’t it? Until we get the coroner’s report—”
“Tweetie did not kill herself,” I said through gritted teeth. “She certainly didn’t stuff her own corpse in that suit of armor and shove it under my bed.”
“Hey Abby, simmer down,” Greg whispered.
“I will not!” Nothing makes me want to pipe up like being told to simmer down.
Investigator Sharp was sporting a smirk. Greg may not have seen it, but I’m sure Wynnell did.
“Mrs. Timberlake, I was hoping you’d be more cooperative.”
“I’m very cooperative,” I snapped. “But I’m not the only one you should be interviewing. Why start with me?”
That surprised her. “Who else was here all evening?”
“My friend Wynnell Crawford here. She found the body.”
Wynnell scowled behind fused brows. “You sent me into that room, Abby.”
The investigator looked Wynnell over, and apparently deciding she looked harmless, turned back to me. “Mrs. Timberlake, it was your party. I prefer to start with you.”
Greg poked me in the side with a long tan finger. “Cooperate,” he said just above a whisper.
“Do I have a choice?” Mama probably heard my whisper all the way down in Rock Hill.
Investigator Sharp surprised me by laughing. “You’re feisty. I like that. And since you’re being blunt, I’ll return the favor. You could refuse to talk, but that wouldn’t look good for you. You could ask Greg to stay, but that wouldn’t look good for him. I’m the one who’s been assigned to this case.”
I looked at Greg.
He nodded. “She’s right.”
“But aren’t I supposed to call my lawyer?”
“Abby, you’re not a suspect. She just wants to ask you a few questions. She’s not going to shine a light in your eyes, or tie you to a rack.”
“Then fire away,” I said to prove I was both innocent and game.
“Is the dining room okay?”
“That would be fine,” Investigator Sharp said in that high, girlish voice I found so annoying.
I led the way, limping. I was pretty sure my right ankle wasn’t broken, but it was definitely sprained. I’d exchanged my hoops and stilts for sweats and slippers, but walking was still a chore.
“What happened to your foot?” At least the investigator could see the obvious.
“I fell.”
“When?”
“It has nothing to do with the case, I assure you.”
She let it drop and I showed her to the carver’s chair at the head of my new dining room table. Actually, it isn’t new at all, but seventeenth-century English. It is, however, new to me. At any rate, a normal person would have commented about how beautifully appointed the room was. Investigator Sharp seemed oblivious to taste. She reached into a snakeskin attaché case and removed a palm-sized tape recorder, which she set on the table in front of her. Then she crossed her long shapely legs, balancing a stenographer’s pad on her knee.
I stared at the dinky device. “You’re going to tape me?”
“Do you have a problem with that?”
“Well, no—but couldn’t you just write everything down on your pad?”
“I suppose I could, but that would take too long. I plan to write down only those things which seem to be of obvious importance at the moment.”
“But Greg said you only had a few questions!”
She tossed her blond locks in a dismissive manner. “Mrs. Timberlake, how well did you know the deceased?”
It was time to regain a little control. It was, after all, my house.
“First,” I said, “please, call me Abby. I only kept Timberlake for professional reasons. The real Mrs. Timberlake is upstairs. Dead.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The deceased, as you call her. Her name is Tweetie Timberlake. She was married to my ex-husband. So you might say I knew her fairly well.”
I’m not an expert at reading upside down, and her penmanship left a lot to be desired, but as far as I could tell, Investigator Sharp wrote everything down. Word for word. It took forever. Quite possibly she hadn’t mastered some of the harder letters, like capital T’s.
“Abby,” she finally said, “you may call me Barb.”
I nodded, but said nothing. Clearly she was trying to disarm me with this gesture of familiarity.
My silence didn’t stop pen from moving on pad. “And how would you describe your relationship?”
“It was civil. Well, maybe not at first, but what can you expect? She snatched my husband out from under me—uh, I don’t mean that literally—and disrupted my children’s lives. But it’s been several years, and I had made my peace with the woman. In fact, because of our age difference, it’s almost like I saw her as another daughter.”
“I see. So you completely got over your resentment?”
“Well, I suppose there were vestiges of—hey, I didn’t use the word ‘resentment,’ did I?”
Barb smiled. “But would you say the word fits?”
“Not really. Sure, I remember what she did to my family, but I don’t dwell on it. I certainly didn’t wish her any harm. Like I said, I felt sort of motherly toward her. Lord knows the woman could have used a better one. You might even say Tweetie and I were friends—at the least we were united against a common enemy.”
“Oh? Who?”
“Buford. My ex, and her present. They’re still—well, were—still married. Tweetie was incapable of supporting herself, and since Buford is Charlotte’s finest divorce lawyer, alimony is not a given. Tweetie had decided to stick it out until she was sure of her options.”
“I see. Tell me, why was the deceased incapable, as you put it, of supporting herself?”
“Tweetie is the quintessential blond joke. Line up ten of her and you get a wind tunnel. Give her a, uh—” I suddenly remembered I was talking to a blond. “Tweetie was a bottle blond,” I added hastily. “I’m sure that makes a difference.”
Barb appeared unaffected by my reference to color preference. “The second Mrs. Timberlake never worked?”
I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “She was working as an exotic dancer when Buford met her. But she had no college or formal job training, and would never have gone back to dancing. Not after having a taste of the good life.”
“I suppose a job as night clerk at a convenience store was not an option?”
“Would it be for you? If you were in Tweetie’s circumstances, I mean? She may not have been accepted by everyone in her milieu, but she did a lot of work for charity, and because of that, had a good number of friends on the social register. No, I think Tweetie’s only option was to find another mate with Buford’s connections.”
Barb’s writing hand was a blur. “You certainly seem to have done all right on your own.”
I ran my fingers through hair the color of dark chocolate. I’m genetically blest. Gray is only just beginning to creep in along the temples, and it’s more silver than gray. Icing on the cake, Mama calls it.
“I had a passion for antiques,” I said. “It’s easier when you have a passion.”
Barb vigorously underlined something. “Okay, let’s talk about the party. Was Mrs. Timberlake an invited guest?”
“Of course. So was Buford. Only he had to be out of town on business.”
“I see. Well, you certainly are a broad-minded woman, Abby.”
I fell for the bait. “Look, I’d rather have invited Newt Gingrich and Dennis Rodman. I would have, too, if I’d thought they’d have come. The party was to impress people.”
“I see. Were there crashers tha
t you know of?”
“It was a costume party,” I said irritably. “Some of the guests were able to completely disguise themselves.”
Barb nodded. “Like the deceased.”
“Oh, no! Tweetie didn’t come as a knight. She came dressed as Little Bo Peep.”
“Little Bo Peep?”
“She even brought a live sheep.”
Barb scribbled furiously. “Who came as the knight?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest. It never said a word.”
“Who arrived at your party first? The knight, or Miss Peep?”
“Miss Peep, as I recall.”
“Who was the first to leave?”
“Uh, well—that was a bit more confusing, seeing as how I had a virtual riot on my hands. Come to think of it, I can’t remember either of them leaving. They certainly didn’t throw potshots at me like some of the other guests.”
Barb’s pen hovered above the pad like it couldn’t wait to deposit more ink. If indeed she was writing only the most important points, I could be in trouble.
“Abby, what do you mean when you say you had a virtual riot on your hands? What was going on?”
“Mama! That’s what was going on. She came to the party dressed as Lady Godiva. If she’d come as Mary Poppins, I’m sure Lady Liberty wouldn’t have dropped her torch. I tried to keep order, but they just wouldn’t listen. What was I to do, but kick them all out?”
Apparently Barb found this amusing. She twittered like a schoolgirl who’d been told a naughty joke.
“You try having Mozella Wiggins as your mother!” I wailed. “She’s more trouble than raising teenagers.”
“I wouldn’t know. I have no children.”
“Well, take my word for it.”
“I’ll do that. Okay, Abby”—she scanned her notes—“do you recall any interaction between Miss Peep and the Tin Man during the party?” She smiled. “Before the riot?”
“No. In fact, it’s like they both disappeared. I remember thinking how glad I was that Tweetie didn’t sneak that stupid sheep into my house. She tried to bring it through the front door, you know.”
“Ah, yes the sheep. I was just getting to that. Where is it now?”
“Heck if I know.” I clapped my hands to my cheeks. “Oh my gosh, you don’t think it’s still tied up outside? If it’s eaten my camellias I’ll kill Tweetie—oops, that’s not what I meant to say! It’s just a figure of speech. I say that all the time. And not just me, either, everyone says that. I bet even you say that.” I giggled nervously.
Barb’s eyes made contact with mine, but I could no longer read their expression. “Who discovered the body?”
“Not me! It was Wynnell Crawford. I already told you that.”
“Where were you at the time?”
“I was waiting for her at the top of stairs. We were going to go down together to check the windows and doors.”
“What was she doing? Why were you waiting?”
“She was retrieving a machete I keep under the bed.”
MACHETE she wrote in large block letters that I could read even though they were upside down. She underlined the word twice. Then she enclosed the C and turned it into a smiley face.
“It’s safer than a gun,” I explained quickly. “And it’s really just an antique. I would never really use it, of course, unless someone broke into my house—” I clapped both hands over my mouth. Give me a thread and I would find some way to twist it into a hangman’s noose.
Barb’s pen did the flamenco and she was forced to turn the page to allow it more room. “How long was Mrs. Crawford out of your sight?”
“Just a minute or two. Trust me, she didn’t have time to kill Tweetie and stuff her in that suit of armor. Besides, where would she have hidden the Bo Peep costume? And what about the person who came in the armor? Where did she disappear to?”
The tiny recorder had a tiny tape, and the machine shut itself off. Barb reversed the direction before answering. “That’s a good question. But are you saying you think the perpetrator was female?”
“Huh?”
“You said she.”
“I was being nonsexist. I never even saw the person inside the suit, so I don’t know if he was male or female. It could have been either, you know.”
“I see. Is this a genuine suit of armor?”
“Heavens no. It’s a good copy though. I’ll grant you that. But nobody I know would abandon a suit of genuine seventeenth-century Italian armor. Besides, a real suit of armor would weigh in the neighborhood of sixty pounds. It would be a real chore to lug that around just for a party.”
“So you are saying that the person who wore it to your party had to be a male.”
“Or a strong female,” I said, and then immediately wished I hadn’t.
She gave me the once over while I tried to look as puny as possible. Apparently satisfied, she consulted her notes briefly.
“Abby, why didn’t you kick out your friend, Mrs. Crawford, along with the rest of them?”
“Because she was drunk in bed.”
The pen got a good workout. “Abby, what is your relationship to Mrs. Crawford?”
“Well, we’re best friends. As close as gums and teeth. And we’re colleagues. She owns the shop across the street.”
“Have the two of you been getting along lately?”
“Of course. Sure, sometimes we have our—hey, you’re not thinking I killed Tweetie, and that I’m trying to frame Wynnell, are you?”
“I haven’t come to any conclusions,” she said, without making eye contact. “I’m just gathering facts.”
“Facts? I can’t read most of what you’re writing, but you’re sure doing a lot of it. Frankly, Barbie—I mean Barb—I’d feel a lot better if I had my attorney present.”
“Abby, you have not been arrested. There’s really no need to involve him.”
“It’s a her.”
“Well, you are free to cooperate or not. The decision is yours. But in all fairness, if you choose not to cooperate—well, let’s just say there are certain implications to be considered.”
I refuse to be bullied. Most of the time, perhaps due to my diminutive stature, folks want to protect me. But every now and then I run into someone who seems eager to push me around. When I was younger, I allowed the pushers to get me just to the edge of hysteria before I fought back. By now experience has taught me that it is less stressful, and far more effective, to resist the moment I feel I’m being compromised. If I’d only paid attention to my cat, I would have learned this far earlier in the game.
“This sounds like a threat,” I said calmly.
“Threat?” Barb jabbed the off button on the miniature recorder. “Look here, Mrs. Timberlake, I’m just trying to do my job with as little interference as possible. You want your lawyer? Fine. But I’m warning you—”
I stood. The pain in my ankle was excruciating, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t let it show.
“This interview is over.”
Barb blinked. “As you wish.”
“Terrific! Because I also wish you would leave my house.”
“No can do. Not until I finish my job. First I need to speak to Mrs. Crawford.”
8
Greg and Wynnell were in the kitchen sipping hot chocolate and eating cheese straws. On the stove a pot of fresh peanuts was boiling merrily. Under normal circumstances I would have plopped a deck of cards on the table and the three of us would have had a rousing game of Up and Down the Ladder. Alas, it was far from a normal evening. I had a throbbing ankle, and there were at least five people in my bedroom upstairs, one of whom was as dead as last Sunday’s roast. Wynnell, to tell you the truth, didn’t look a whole lot healthier.
She jumped when she saw me. “Abby!”
By contrast, Greg set his mug down casually. “How’d it go?”
“The woman is a witch,” I said kindly. “She gets you to buddy up to her—insists you call her Barb—but the whole time she’s waiting
to pounce on you like a hen on a June bug.”
Wynnell sipped noisily from her cup. “Were you cooperative, Abby?”
“Until she pushed me too far. Thank heavens I’d taken that Xanax.”
Greg pulled me lightly into his lap. “Barb’s new in the department. She has a different way of doing things.”
Wynnell scowled. “Is she a Yankee? I didn’t hear an accent.”
“Barb’s from California—Southern California—but she was born and raised in Raleigh. Anyway, she’s pretty good at what she does.”
“Says who?”
“Everyone, I guess. Sure, there was a little resistance when we first heard a woman was joining the department, but then we gradually warmed up to the idea.”
“I bet y’all did. Some of y’all might even have overheated.”
Greg chuckled. “Well, you can’t deny she’s a looker.”
“Look, but don’t touch.” I slipped into a chair of my own.
“Hey, you’re not jealous, are you?”
“Not on your life.” I took a sip from his mug. “Wynnell, she wants to talk to you next.”
Wynnell blanched, her black brows standing out like clumps of wet driftwood on a white sand beach. She was in the middle of swallowing, and apparently some of the liquid went down the wrong pipe.
“Now?” she gasped.
I leaned over and gave her a good hard slap on the back. “I’m afraid so.”
“But I don’t know anything. I was—well, I was, uh—”
“Passed out on my guest bed the entire evening?”
“Abby!” Greg said sternly. He gave Wynnell the thumbs-up sign. “Hey. You’ve got nothing to worry about, right?”
“Right.”
“So just tell her the truth.”
“Which she’ll twist into a braid of a thousand strands,” I mumbled.
“Abby!”
“But it’s true! She took everything I said the wrong way.”
“Abby, you’re acting like a child.”
“I am not!”
“But you are.”
I turned to Wynnell. “Am I?”
“If the shoe fits,” she said and took a loud slurp.
By then I’d had it with everyone. I stamped my size-four, realizing too late it was the wounded party. After a muffled scream and a few choice words, I got my act together.
