Nightmare in Shining Armor

by Tamar Myers

  Yes, I know, I’m engaged to be married, but what difference should that make? I’m constantly having to pick Greg’s eyeballs off the sidewalk, so to speak. What’s good for the gander is good for the goose, I say—just as long as the goose doesn’t goose the gander she’s not attached to.

  “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  Ma’am? In a perfect world a stud muffin like that would be calling me Abby, or baby. Not ma’am.

  “Abigail Timberlake,” I said. I hadn’t emphasized my last name like that in years. Not that I didn’t have a perfect right to do so. Besides two children and a broken heart, a name is all Buford ever really gave me. If throwing his moniker around opened a few doors, then so be it.

  The hunk peered down at me, as if noticing the Lilliputian at his feet for the first time. “You’re not related to the woman on the news, are you?”

  I tried to be patient. “That would depend on which woman you mean. But if you’re talking about the one found dead in a suit of armor, the answer is yes, although in a roundabout way. She was married to my ex-husband.

  “Anyway, as I understand it, Widow—I mean, Mrs. Saunders is supposed to have quite an armor collection. I was hoping I could get a chance to look at it, maybe make a few notes. I’m an antique dealer, you see, and I thought I could help the police identify the armor you saw on the news.”

  It took my voice a few seconds to carry up to his cute little ears. Another couple seconds were chewed up as his brain processed my words. I’m not complaining, mind you. Older men have put up with this minor inconvenience since time immemorial.

  “Ah,” he finally said, “maybe you should speak to Mrs. Saunders.”

  I bit my tongue. “Lead the way,” I said cheerily. I have learned from my friend Magdalena Yoder, up in Pennsylvania, that false cheer can be cultivated, and is an invaluable tool in marketing one’s business. Or just getting one’s way in general.

  “Just a moment, please.”

  It was a pleasure to watch Caleb trot off to find the mistress. He filled his tight jeans very nicely, and the views, both coming and going, were worth driving across town for. And lest you think I’m going too far in sharing this randy observation, allow me to remind you that we women have historically been on the receiving end of leers. It is time we gave tit for tat. Well, you know what I mean.

  “She’ll see you in the drawing room,” he said, and without further ado led me down a portrait-lined hallway and through a set of open mahogany doors.

  I gasped.

  13

  In front of me was the Rob-Bob’s salon. I don’t mean their actual salon, of course, but a room that looked like I wish their salon had. These walls were covered in pale pink silk damask. The windows were covered with sheers, but dressed with deep rose drapes, also silk. On the gleaming parquet floor was an Aubusson, whose dominant colors were pink, rose, and a green that perfectly matched young Caleb’s eyes. The furniture was rococo with embroidered upholstery, and the gilt was echoed in the elaborate frames of the myriad Impressionist paintings that decked the walls. It was definitely a woman’s room. With a credit card and a good man by my side, I could live in a place like that and never go outside.

  Then I noticed for the first time that one of the chairs was occupied by a small woman about my mama’s age. I realize that may sound hard to believe, but she was wearing a flowered brocade suit that all but matched the furniture. Besides, was it my fault the room was so beautiful?

  I gasped again. “Oh.”

  The woman smiled.

  I waited for Caleb to make introductions, but when I looked around, the doors were closed and he wasn’t there. Fortunately the woman in the brocade bouquet took the initiative.

  “You must be Mrs. Timberlake,” she said in the husky voice of a smoker—in this case probably a reformed smoker, since there was no telltale stench in the air. “I’m Corinthia Saunders. Please come in.”

  I was tempted to curtsy before approaching the fabled Widow Saunders. Lord knows, she deserved one for having such good taste in furnishings. However, the last time I tried to curtsy, it was to an English duchess, and I ended up genuflecting by mistake. There is a difference, you know.

  At any rate, the next time I go calling on Charlotte’s crème de la crème, I’ll wear something besides sweats and tennis shoes. Dressed as I was, I felt utterly unworthy to enter such a splendid room. And just for the record, I did not feel unworthy of meeting the widow. All women are created equal—a few men as well.

  The Widow Saunders was an astute woman and sensed my discomfort. A true Southern lady, she saw it as her job to put me at ease.

  “I’m on my way to a tea this morning,” she said. “Otherwise I live in jeans.”

  “So does the Pope,” I mumbled under my breath. And then drawing on my training as a lady, I walked gracefully forward—well, given the limitations of a badly sprained ankle—and extended my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said in my best modulated tones.

  The widow took my hand and then gestured toward her right. A true Southern lady, I knew she would never presume to ask me about my limp without first being given an entrée.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  I did as bidden, although I had no right to sit on a three-hundred-year old chair in sweat pants from Wal-Mart. It felt like stacking comic books on the Bible. When, after a few seconds, I was not struck by lightning, I gathered the courage to speak.

  “Ma’am, you don’t know me, and I know I should have called first, but I was wondering if I could get a peek at your armor collection.”

  She looked me over with the eyes of experience. The rich do not gain their wealth, nor do they hold on to it, by naivete. President Bush may have been flummoxed by a supermarket price scanner, but that was an exceptional case. The Widow Saunders, I’d be willing to bet, has seen the inside of a few groceries. Maybe not Bi-Lo, but surely the upscale Hannaford in South Park.

  “Do I understand correctly, Mrs. Timberlake, that you are working with the police?”

  “Oh no, ma’am. But I thought I might help them.”

  The widow shook her head. “He may be cute, but he’s dumb as a post.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Caleb. The young man who showed you in.”

  I giggled nervously. “Ah yes, your secretary.”

  Her throaty laugh was anything but patrician. “Caleb is not my secretary. He’s my—well, I prefer the old-fashioned term—paramour.”

  “You don’t say!”

  She laughed again. Marbles rattling in a jar is what came to mind.

  “Oh dear. Mrs. Timberlake, have I shocked you?”

  I caught my breath. “Frankly, yes. But not in a bad way, you understand. I mean, you go, girl!”

  “So you approve?” She sounded merely curious.

  “It isn’t my business to approve or disapprove of your romantic life. But I must say that I’m delighted to see a May-December relationship in which the tables are turned. In fact, it’s the second one I’ve seen in two days.” I clamped a tiny hand over a very big mouth.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Mrs. Timberlake—may I call you Abigail?”

  I nodded.

  “And please, call me Corie. Anyway, as I was about to say, I have no illusions about the boy. I know he wouldn’t look at me twice—what with my wrinkles and wattles—if he didn’t think I was loaded.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I only pretended to be confused. The woman certainly had wattles. For her sake, I hope she stayed indoors the week of Thanksgiving.

  “Oh, come off it, child. I’m old. There is no getting around that. And while they’re right about money not buying happiness, it can—and in this case, does—buy companionship. And”—she lowered her raspy voice to a whisper—“the best sex I’ve ever had. Ever.”

  “Oh, my.” I felt the color rush to my cheeks.

  “Gracious me, now I’ve really embarrassed you, haven’t I?”

  She had, of course, not that it mattered.
I would be lucky to even have a sex life when I was her age. Heck, I would be lucky just to reach her age. And while normally I would think this conversation inappropriate for two strangers, I was fascinated by Corie Saunders.

  She was doing what rich men have done through the ages. Men like Aristotle Onassis, for instance. And not just really old rich men, either. Does anyone really think Donald Trump could flaunt a progression of beauties on his arm if he were dirt-poor? And would fillies—er, I mean women younger than some horses—trot into Michael Douglas or Jerry Seinfield’s stables, if these men worked at Arby’s, making roast beef sandwiches for the minimum wage? I think not.

  “It’s just that I’d rather not hear any details,” I said. “If you please.”

  Corie nodded and reached in the drawer of a small marquetry table of graceful proportions. She withdrew a packet of Virginia Slims and what appeared to be a solid gold cigarette lighter.

  “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Corie grinned. “Good. I was hoping you’d keep me on track. I haven’t had a cigarette since, well—since an hour ago.”

  I made a point of sniffing the air.

  “Ha! You have moxie, Abigail. I like that. Reminds me of myself, when I was your age. But to answer your question, this house has a first-rate air filtration system. My late husband put it in for his armor collection. That stuff rusts if you look at it cross-eyed.”

  I nodded agreeably. “And speaking of that armor, Corie”—I must confess here that addressing the fabled woman by her nickname made the hairs on my arms stand up with pleasure—“may I please see it?”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “No fair,” I wailed. “You titillate me by alluding to your sex life with that stud muffin out there, but then you’re unwilling to let me examine your antiques! What’s that all about? You were willing to show the collection to Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben, for crying out loud. Why them, and not me?”

  “Because I no longer own the collection, that’s why.”

  Thinking I had heard wrong, I shook my head to clear it of cobwebs. Thank heavens no spiders fell out.

  “What?”

  “I sold the entire collection last Monday.”

  “Why?” I still couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “Abigail, the armor was my husband’s passion, not mine. In fact, I’ve decided to sell most everything, including this house, and start over again someplace new.”

  “With him?”

  She nodded. “Abigail, it isn’t easy being an icon. I’m almost seventy years old. I’m tired of shouldering the burdens of my position—a position I never aspired to by the way. So, like I said, I’m starting over. Someplace where I can be just me.”

  “Where?”

  “The Riviera maybe. Not the popular watering holes, of course—I’m likely to run into Charlotteans there. But I was thinking of Genoa.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re willing to give up the A-list in the Queen City for Genoa with some gigolo?”

  The marbles got a good workout. “Maybe if there was someone like you in my crowd, I’d be tempted to stay put.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment. Corie,” I said in my best getting-back-to-business tone, “to whom did you sell the armor collection? If you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Oh, not at all. It surprises me, however, that you know nothing about the transaction.”

  “Why should I? Was the sale advertised?” As well as my business is doing, it would still have been a stretch for me to buy a single piece of authentic seventeenth-century armor, much less an entire three-quarter suit. Even had I been able to acquire, say, a helmet and visor, to whom would I sell it? Let’s face it, it would have to be an eccentric, or someone with a strong sense of whimsy and money to burn. “Hey,” I said, before she could answer my questions, “it wasn’t a gentleman by the name of Captain Keffert, was it?”

  Corie shook her head.

  “It’s that Meredith woman! It’s got to be. She may not be as eccentric as the so-called captain, but she’s rolling in dough. And,” I added generously for Corie’s benefit, “she, too, has a boy toy.”

  “Is that so?” The corners of her mouth twitched, causing her wrinkles to dance.

  “Oh yes. He’s her tennis instructor. Roderick. But he’s not as cute as your Caleb.” It was a harmless white lie.

  I got treated to another concert of marbles in a jar. A long one. If I’d had a kazoo in my purse, we could have made some funky music together.

  “Oh please, Abigail,” she finally said, “you’re too much. But no, it’s not Lynne. And yes, my Caleb is cuter.”

  “You know them?”

  “Certainly. Lynne and I move in some of the same circles.”

  “But she’s a Yankee!” I wailed. “A Buckeye from Ohio. My ancestors have lived in the Carolinas since before the Revolution and I—well, never mind.”

  “No, say it.” There was definitely a glint in those beady old eyes.

  “Okay, but only since you asked me to. I was about to say that I’ve never moved in any of your circles.”

  She leaned in my direction and I had the feeling that had I been close enough, she would have patted me. Apparently the woman had a tender side.

  “Abigail, please understand that Lynne moves in only some of my circles. The widest ones. She certainly does not number among my intimates.”

  “Whew, that’s a relief.”

  “Now, now, dear, sarcasm doesn’t become you. Besides, after I move to Geneoa I’ll have whole new circles to establish. And since I won’t know anyone at first, you’re welcome to come over and get in on the ground floor. I’m sure I could use a sensible friend like you.”

  I hoped Corie was teasing. But if she wasn’t, I suppose I should have been flattered. Who would have thought a girl from Rock Hill would someday be invited to Europe, to befriend one of Charlotte’s elite? Certainly not me.

  “That’s very generous of you, Corie. If I ever cross the Big Pond, I’ll look you up. In the meantime”—I pushed up one of my sweatshirt sleeves to glance at my watch—“would you please tell me who bought your late husband’s armor collection?”

  Corie settled back in her chair, her hands folded in her lap. Judging by the Cheshire cat grin distorting her features, she was going to relish the disclosure when it finally came.

  14

  “It was your ex-husband. Buford Timberlake.”

  If I’d fallen off my chair, I would have cracked my skull wide open on a coffee table. Since coffee tables were not in use in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, someone—a recent ancestor, I hope, and not the old dame herself—had converted a Louis XV bureau-plat into one. Fortunately I teetered instead of toppled.

  “Buford? My Buford? Buford the Timber Snake Timberlake?”

  She nodded, pleased at my response.

  “But he doesn’t know the first thing about antiques!”

  “I had him out here so I could rewrite my will. You wouldn’t believe how tricky it is to exclude blood relatives from inheriting one’s estate, especially if one has no intention of marrying one’s beneficiary.” She waved a liver-spotted hand. “But never mind that. What I’m getting to is that your Timber Snake, as you so charmingly call him, was quite taken with my late husband’s collection. So much so, in fact, he made me an offer on the spot.”

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. Buford and I once spent a long weekend in the Windy City, during which we visited the Art Institute of Chicago. Whereas I preferred to browse the Flemish masters, Buford was flat-out fascinated by the George F. Harding collection of late medieval and Renaissance armature. I couldn’t drag him away from the display. It took two security guards and the threat of arrest to get him out the doors at closing time. Still, there is a big difference between appreciating a finely crafted suit of armor and shelling out the kind of bucks needed to buy an entire collection.

  Still, ever s
ince that weekend in Chicago, Buford has displayed an unnatural passion for armadillos, tanks, football helmets, and jockstraps. Never one to do things in a small way, I wouldn’t put it past him to buy the widow’s collection, but not without consulting an expert first. And just who would that expert have been? One of the Rob-Bobs, that’s who! How cagey of them to suggest that Tweetie’s metal coffin had been a fine European imitation.

  “Drat!” I said, perhaps a bit vehemently.

  “I beg your pardon, dear?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “But it is something. You look very annoyed.”

  I sighed. “It’s just that the Rob-Bobs—that’s what I call Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben—misled me. I thought they were here to appraise some furniture, or maybe some artwork. They didn’t let on at all that they were in on the armor. And they’re two of my best friends.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “Rob’s the tall handsome one,” I added for further clarification. “Dark hair, just turning silver at the temples. Bob’s skinny and kind of gawky, but he has a voice that would tame the Bosphorus Straits.”

  “I know who they are,” she assured me. “But they did appraise my furniture. Well, most of it, at any rate. There are a few pieces I’m considering shipping to Genoa, but the bulk of it I’ve decided to put up for auction in Atlanta. Mr. Goldburg seems to think I’ll get more for it there. Charlotteans, he says, are too conservative. Do you agree?”

  “Well, uh, are you saying my friends didn’t appraise the armor collection?”

  “Gracious, no!” The marbles rattled briefly. “I got an armor expert for that.”

  “Who? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  She studied me closely, which, given my size, only took a few seconds. “A dealer by the name of Wynnell Crawford.”

  “Get out of town!”

  She recoiled, no doubt due to the strength of my ejaculation. “You seem quite excited by this, Abigail.”

  “Excited? Flabbergasted is more like it! Wynnell couldn’t tell a jousting helmet from a tin can. Her specialty is Victorian furniture, for crying out loud. Late Victorian, at that!”