Nightmare in Shining Armor

by Tamar Myers

  “I’m your only arrival at the moment, dear.” The door opened and a family of four entered. “Well, I was. And since when has Bubba gotten so particular?”

  Kimberley whispered behind a smudged menu. “He’s going upscale to capture the South Park market. He plans to change the name to Bubba’s Asian Buffet and wants to add a few Thai dishes to the menu. He’s already added a couple of Japanese delicacies.”

  “Oh? Like what?”

  “Hush puppy sushi.”

  “What the heck is that?”

  Kimberley talked to her menu again. “They’re Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks, but he cuts them in half and rebreads the ends so that you can’t tell.”

  I thanked Kimberley for the warning, told her to attend to the waiting party of four, and ducked out of her reach. Greg, who was sipping an iced green tea with lemon stood when he saw me hobbling toward him.

  “That was fast.” He kissed me before sitting again. “No offense, Abby, but for a moment there I thought you were your mother. What’s with the getup?”

  “I don’t want to go home. Not just yet. And since Mama is almost my size, and has such good taste…” I let my voice trail off, hoping to be contradicted.

  “Speaking of whom, how is your mama?”

  It is a question he asks me every time I see him. I know he’s just showing that he cares by asking it, but this time it irked me.

  “You just talked to her,” I snapped. “She’s fine, as you could tell. So fine she went ahead and bought me a house in Rock Hill.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Well, she made an offer at any rate. But I didn’t almost break my neck getting here to talk about her. Tell me about Corie Saunders.”

  Greg settled back in the booth. “You sure you don’t want to order first?”

  “Greg!”

  He spread his large, strong hands. “Okay. I was on my way over here to eat anyway, and I got a call from Investigator Sharp. She in turn had just gotten a call from Investigator McClendon, who was calling from the Saunders mansion. According to McClendon, you were seen at the house just minutes before her body was discovered. Abby, is this true?”

  My head was spinning. “Yes, I was out there to see Widow Saunders, and yes, it must have been just moments before she died, because I drove straight from there to Mama’s.”

  “How long did that take you?”

  “Maybe forty minutes. Forty-five at the most.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I took a shower. Then Mama and I argued about clothes, and then we argued about the house she wants me to buy. Then you called. I guess I was at Mama’s about half an hour.”

  He nodded. “That fits in with the witness’s report.”

  “What witness? You mean the boy toy?”

  “The chauffeur. He was coming back from getting the car gassed—said the widow had an appointment—when he saw you leave by the kitchen door. What was that about, Abby?”

  I had no choice but to tell Greg the entire story. You can bet I left nothing out. To his credit, Greg didn’t once interrupt me.

  He whistled softly when I finished. “An old lady like that running off with a kid. I don’t see it.”

  I decided to test him. “But what if their ages were reversed?”

  He shook his head. “I still don’t see it. What would we talk about? She wouldn’t know my music. Hell, she probably wouldn’t even know what a drive-in was.”

  I beamed. The guy was a keeper. I needed to remember that.

  “Well, I won’t run off with a younger man,” I promised.

  Greg laughed. “Not even with a boy toy like this Caleb guy?”

  “Tight buns aren’t everything.”

  Greg beamed like the refurbished lighthouse on Cape Hatteras. For a second I thought the smile was for me.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  I turned in surprise. Investigator Sharp was standing behind me, looking sharper than ever in a baby blue suit. The column skirt was split so high that if I wore it, my cleavage would show—along with everything else. What, pray tell, do you think the department head would do if the men started dressing like that?

  “Hello, Gregory.” The pair of well-dressed legs had shed her high girlish voice in favor of what she must have supposed was a sultry one. To me she sounded like Lauren Bacall on steroids.

  “Hey, Barb.” Greg pointed at me. “You remember Abby, of course.”

  “Mrs. Timberlake,” I said in tones crisper than Bubba’s lettuce.

  Greg patted the bench beside him. “Have a seat.”

  The blond flashed me a triumphant look and did what she was bidden. I glared at Greg.

  “Well, Abby,” Investigator Sharp said, “I see you’re going to another costume party.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been admiring your dress. That fifties retro look is so cute. I have a picture of my grandmother courting in an outfit just like that.”

  “Your grandmother courted in a Conestoga,” I growled.

  “Abby!” Greg was not amused.

  “Well, she started this.” I turned to the woman. “This,” I lied, “is my favorite everyday dress. It may look quaint to you, but it allows me to move without exposing my hinney. Besides, not all of us look good in pencil cases.”

  Greg rolled his eyes helplessly.

  Investigator Sharp seemed surprisingly pleased with herself. “Well, shall we get down to business?”

  “By all means,” I said. “I’d like to hit the salad bar before the Great Wall of Cheddar disappears altogether.” I was referring to Bubba’s edible centerpiece which is carved fresh daily.

  “Good. Abby—”

  “Mrs. Timberlake.”

  “Yes, well, Mrs. Timberlake, I’m afraid you have some explaining to do.”

  I sat on the edge of my seat. Then again, given my height, that’s where I usually sit if I want to cross my legs.

  “If you must know, I went to see Widow Saunders about her armor collection. I wanted to see if she had any seventeenth-century pieces I could compare with the suit Tweetie was found in.”

  Barbie appeared baffled. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because if it was really an antique, it would narrow your search. There aren’t that many people in Charlotte who could afford such a piece, just for the sake of art. Say, is there any possibility I could take another look at that suit?”

  Investigator Sharp frowned. “The armor is evidence. We had our own expert examine it.”

  “You have a medieval armor expert. Who?”

  “Mrs. Timberlake, this is not your concern.”

  “Is it Wynnell Crawford?”

  “Cool it, Abby,” Greg muttered.

  I chose to ignore my beloved. “Because Wynnell may, or may not, be the expert she claims, but you have to remember she was the one who found the body.”

  And yes, I did feel guilty for having suggested my best friend might not be a reliable witness. That she might actually have something to hide. The truth was, though, that Wynnell had been hiding a lot of things lately. Who knew what remained to be uncovered?

  Tweetie’s twin twittered. “We don’t use suspects as expert witnesses.”

  “So she is a suspect?”

  “That’s privileged information.”

  “Fair enough. Can you at least tell me what your expert determined? Was that genuine period armor?”

  “That much I can tell you. It’s not real armor.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Greg cleared his throat. “Abby, please. Let Barb do her job.”

  I swallowed my irritation. It was every bit as tasty as Bubba’s cooking.

  “By all means. Interrogate away.”

  Investigator Sharp gave her head a triumphant toss. Her natural blond mane grazed my fiancé’s cheek, but I could tell by his expression that he didn’t mind at all.

  “Well, Mrs. Timberlake,” she said pointedly, “you stated that you paid a visit to Mrs. Gavin Saunders to view h
er armor collection. Did you think it authentic?”

  “I never got to see any. She had an appointment so I had to leave.”

  “Through the kitchen?”

  “Okay, I admit it. That was bad judgment on my part. You see, I got kind of mesmerized by all this silver in the dining room—which I didn’t touch, by the way—and then I heard someone coming and I didn’t want it to look like I was snooping, so I took the easy way out. But I didn’t kill anybody. In fact, I don’t even know how the widow died.”

  “Evidently she was poisoned.”

  “By what?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me. Did the two of you have anything to eat or drink?”

  I shook my head. “It would have been lovely to have tea in that salon though. You should have seen it.”

  “Abby,” Greg said gently, “there’s no need for sarcasm.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Look, I don’t know why you suspect me. I wouldn’t have had the slightest motive. I’d never met the woman before this morning.”

  Before Barbie could bombard me with her reasons, our waitress appeared. I smiled at her gratefully.

  “Hey there.”

  “Hey, I’m Gina and I’ll be your waitress today. The buffet is $4.99 per person. Of course you could order off the menu.” She leaned forward and spoke softly. “But I don’t advise it.”

  “Why is that? They too busy back in the kitchen?”

  Gina stepped even closer. “You have a better chance of escaping food poisoning if you eat from the buffet. It’s already been tested, if you know what I mean.”

  The three of us nodded. We all ordered the buffet.

  Gina removed a stub of a pencil from behind her ear. “Will this be one check?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “My parents here will be glad to spring for me.”

  “Abb—” Greg started to chide me but stopped. Something outside our booth had caught his attention.

  16

  I turned and stared. Had I not had a vision check within the last six months, I wouldn’t have believed my peepers.

  “It’s Lynne Meredith,” I gasped, “and her stud muffin!”

  Greg took a sip of his green tea, his eyes not leaving the new arrivals. “Funny, but I wouldn’t have thought this sort of place would appeal to her.”

  “It’s probably a big mistake,” I said. “Maybe they were just driving by and were suddenly so overcome by hunger they couldn’t drive another mile.”

  Barbie reached into a blue suede handbag and took out her stenographer’s pad. “Lynne Meredith? Yes, I see here that she was one of the guests at your party, Mrs. Timberlake. I had it on my list to interview her today.”

  “Now is your chance, then.”

  I got up and walked over to the buffet. On my way I swung past Meredith’s table and gave her a meaningful glare. She had the audacity to smile sweetly back at me. Roderick, her tennis instructor, cum boyfriend, actually winked.

  When I returned to the table with my plate loaded with a pinch of everything Bubba had to offer, my two lunch companions were already digging in. Barbie, her mouth bulging with Beijing barbecue, mumbled something about the interview waiting until dessert. I readily agreed.

  I was building a dike with my moo goo gai grits to keep the sweet and sour collards away from my Jell-O, when Gina made a surprise appearance. In her hands she held a platter of sizzling delicacies I hadn’t seen in the buffet.

  “It’s for you,” she said and plopped it in front of me.

  “I didn’t order anything. Only the buffet.”

  Gina, a tall angular girl with a myriad of freckles, jerked her thumb in Lynne Meredith’s direction. “She sent it.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Gina shrugged. “Wouldn’t say.”

  I studied the platter. “What is it?”

  “Bubba’s special poop-poop platter.”

  “You mean pu-pu?”

  “That’s not what Bubba calls it.”

  “Well, please tell the lady thank you.”

  “Tell her yourself.” Gina trotted off to take more orders. Apparently she wasn’t big on tips.

  I sampled the poop-poop platter, decided it was aptly named, and then did as my waitress instructed. Lynne Meredith’s face lit up like a jack-o’-lantern with two candles when she saw me approach.

  “Hello Abby,” she said warmly. “Have a seat.”

  Roderick patted the bench beside him.

  “No thanks. I just wanted to thank you for the platter.”

  “You’re welcome.” Lynne had a smile like Doris Day’s. In fact, she looked very much like a fifty-something Doris Day, except that Lynne lacked a waist.

  A good Southern girl, I was raised with a modicum of manners and wondered how to segue into the question I wanted to ask. Fortunately, Lynne did it for me.

  “I suppose you’re wondering,” she said, “why I sent you the platter.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was.”

  “Are you sure you can’t join us?”

  Roderick patted the bench again.

  I reluctantly sat.

  Lynne blessed me with an ear to ear smile. “You see, dear, I’m really quite ashamed of the way I behaved last night.”

  “You mean fanning the fire with your tail?”

  “That, too. Although that was an accident. My intentions were good. No, I’m talking about the way I acted when you so understandably threw us out. I’m afraid I was very rude.”

  I said nothing. My tongue is even nastier than Bubba’s cooking.

  “I’m especially ashamed,” Lynne said, “about that Sherman comment. Roderick here really called me on that on.”

  I gave Roderick a tight smile. He is an extremely good-looking young man, better looking even than Caleb, the Widow Saunders’s boy toy. Money may not be able to buy happiness, but it can buy handsomeness.

  “My great-great grandfather fought in the Civil War,” Roderick said. He didn’t say which side, but that much was obvious. Around here “civil war” refers to Bosnia.

  “Three of my great-granddaddies fought in the War of Northern Aggression,” I said.

  Lynne looked like she was about to burst into song. “How fascinating! So anyway, Abby, I also wanted you to know that I didn’t mean what I said about taking my business elsewhere.”

  It was my turn to sing. “You didn’t?”

  She shook her head, and her golden pageboy locks swayed. Not a single hair broke ranks.

  “Abby, I adore doing business with you. And you have such good taste.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” I said. I was being sincere.

  “No, I mean it. I’ve been to all the other shops in town, and they might have some exquisite things, but you have an eye for placement. Why, just look at your home, it’s like a magazine spread. Did you decorate it yourself?”

  “Well, I—hey!” The fingertips on Roderick’s left hand had somehow managed to find their way under my right cheek.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, I was just about to say that I did some of the decorating.” As I spoke I slid my fork off the table and stabbed at the space beside me several times. One of fork thrusts was a direct hit, and Roderick groaned before removed the offending digits. “I’d like to say that I did it all, of course, but that wouldn’t be giving credit where credit is due.”

  “Oh, who helped you?”

  “Superior Interiors. They’re all the way out in Matthews, but they’re the best. Ask for Paul.”

  She nodded, but the glazed look in her eyes told me she didn’t give a hoot. “Abby, I still don’t know many people down here, but I feel like you and I are almost friends. That’s why I hope you don’t mind if I confide something intensely personal.”

  I squirmed. I was glad to be back in business with the woman again, but I’d rather eat Bubba’s poop-poop platter than be privy to some intimate confession. Having the boy toy with the roaming hands beside me made it seem almost sordid.

  “Hey,” I s
aid brightly, “you know I’d really like to stay and chat, but my friends will think I’m being rude.”

  I started to get up.

  “It’s about Tweetie.”

  I sat down again, but closer to the aisle. “What about her?”

  Lynne and Roderick exchanged glances. He cleared his throat.

  “I’m a tennis instructor,” he said.

  “I know that. That’s how you and Lynne met.”

  “Yes, up in Ohio. But shortly after we moved here I got a job at Rivertown Hills Country Club.”

  “I see.” I didn’t, of course.

  Roderick was undoubtedly used to small minds, because he read mine easily. “I know, you’re probably wondering why a man in my position would want to work for a living.”

  “You said it, dear.”

  He smiled ruefully. “Lynne is very generous, but I have my pride. I like to pay my way—at least some of the time. And”—he winked again—“it keeps me buff.”

  “Roderick has gorgeous abs,” Lynne purred. “You should feel them.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “No, go ahead,” Roderick said, and turned on the bench so I could cop an easy feel.

  I resisted the temptation to run my hands down what appeared to be a washboard stomach. Greg’s body is quite enough for me. Never mind that his abs are—well, at least they’re not flabby. Still, to be absolutely honest, there was a small part of me that envied these older women their boy toys. An incredibly small part. A much bigger part of me was happy for them, and for women in general. I don’t think the need to have a boy toy was an emotionally healthy place to be, but it was nice to see that after thousands of years of men having trophy wives, women were finally getting a chance to make fools out of themselves.

  “So Tweetie took lessons from you?” I asked calmly.

  “Yeah. In a manner of speaking. She isn’t—or should I say, wasn’t—cut out for sports.”

  “Too much bouncing?”

  “Yeah, and there was no room to swing.”

  I nodded somberly. There would have been a time when I would have delighted in that conversation. But now I merely felt sorry for Tweetie. And for Buford.