Nightmare in Shining Armor

by Tamar Myers

  “A hole.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s more of a dent, really. You see, Abby, in the sixteenth century firearms were just beginning to become accurate. This created a market for bulletproof armor. In order to withstand a bullet, manufacturers made armor much thicker, which in turn made it much heavier. A full suit could weigh as much as eighty pounds. To compensate for the extra weight, combatants began wearing fewer pieces, and concentrated on protecting the abdomen and head. That’s why the three-quarter cuirassier became popular—the legs became expendable.”

  “Ouch!”

  “True. But better one’s leg than one’s liver. At any rate, manufacturers needed to prove that armor was bulletproof, and to do this, they shot at the breastplate point blank. The dent caused by this was the proof mark. Get it?”

  “Got it. But what if the bullet went all the way through?”

  “Then you didn’t buy the piece.”

  “Duh. So theoretically, if the cuirassier in which you found Tweetie was genuine, there would be a dent somewhere on the breastplate?”

  “Yes, that’s the most likely spot. But bear in mind, Abby, that the proof mark was exhibited by only the highest quality armor. There were plenty of lesser pieces made. Most warfare still consisted of hand to hand combat with swords or lances.”

  “I see. Wynnell, you said there were three collectors other than the widow who owned authentic pieces. Captain Keffert was one. Who are the other two?”

  “Donald and Regina Larkin and—”

  “Get out! Geppetto and Pinocchio?”

  “A small collection. But as I recall, they have some museum quality pieces.”

  “Wow!” I was practically, and uncharacteristically, speechless. The Larkins, perhaps in an attempt to hide their Yankee origins, collected primarily Southern pieces. Their brick home in Myers Park was filled with Civil War–era Charleston furniture and period memorabilia of all kinds. The most European thing I’d seen in their house was the cup of French roast coffee they served me on my last visit.

  But Wynnell was not through. “I’m counting them as one collector, even though they’re really both into it. It’s unusual, you know, to find a woman that interested in armor.”

  My heart was pounding with excitement. “So who’s the third?”

  “Jerry Wentworth.”

  “The dice?” I was, of course, referring to his party costume.

  “That would be die, Abby, since his wife is not a collector at all. Still”—Wynnell laughed—“the dice are loaded. They can afford the best.”

  I laughed, too, grateful for the information. When one thought about it, it made sense. Just as the Larkins were trying to bury their unsavory Northern past beneath mountains of antebellum mementos, no doubt Jerry Wentworth was trying to erase his blue collar Carolina past by purchasing expensive European antiques. And not just any old thing, either, but the very symbol of nobility. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that a Wentworth coat of arms, either copied or fabricated, hung in their newly constructed South Park home.

  Wynnell laughed a little too long. “So, Abby,” she finally said, “you forgive me?”

  “For holding out on me?”

  “If that’s how you choose to look at it.”

  I sighed. “Sure, I forgive you. But you have to do penance.”

  The incomparable brows bristled in alarm. “I’m not Catholic, Abby, you know that. I’m not even Episcopal, like you.”

  “Not that kind of penance! I want you to drive me out to the house so I can pick up my car.”

  We could hear the door to her shop open, even if we couldn’t see it. I have a string of authentic Swiss cow bells dangling from a hook on the back of the front door of the Den of Antiquity. Wynnell, as you might guess, has a set of wooden wind chimes. I hate to admit it but her door opens melodically, whereas my door opens with a clang.

  “Abby, I’ve got customers. Look, you can keep my car all day if you like. I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

  “Thanks, dear, but it’s not just about my car. I need some of my things, and I want to poke around a bit and—well—”

  “You’re afraid?”

  I nodded shamefully.

  “Of what? Oh, I get it! That thing about the killer always returning to the scene of the crime, right?”

  “Well—”

  “Ghosts,” someone immediately behind me said. “She’s afraid of Tweetie’s ghost.”

  I whirled. As I spun, my wounded foot gave out on me and I lost my balance. Fortunately the interloper was none other than C. J., who just so happens to have a generous middle. My forehead bounced off the woman’s stomach and I was upright again. The pain in my foot, however, was excruciating.

  “Damn! C. J., don’t you believe in announcing yourself?”

  The big girl grinned. “Scared you good, Abby, didn’t I?”

  “You startled me,” I said irritably. “There’s a difference. Wynnell, didn’t you see her coming?”

  Wynnell shrugged. “I guess I was distracted. I mean, I heard the door open, but I was hoping it was a customer. C. J., did anyone else come in with you? Any customers?”

  C. J. shook her head. “Hey you guys, I’ve asked you to stop calling me C. J. My name’s Crystal now.”

  Our young friend was looking right at me, so I let Wynnell do the eye rolling. The three of us, along with Mama, had recently taken a road trip to Savannah, Georgia. The purpose of our visit was for me to collect an inheritance left me by my late daddy’s sister. While in that atmospheric city we’d met a woman named Diamond—a voodoo priestess of sorts—who claimed that C. J. had been gifted with the second sight. The girl’s new name was to be Crystal, she said.

  I’m sure that sounds like a lot of malarkey to you, too, but C. J. takes it seriously. She may be one of the most intelligent people I know—in terms of raw IQ scores—but her emotional chandelier is missing—well, a crystal or two.

  “At any rate, Crystal,” I said, “it’s impolite to sneak up on people.”

  “Sorry. But I heard what you were talking about and I was anxious to help.”

  “With what?”

  “Well, I’m not doing anything special today, so why don’t I drive you over to your house?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Wynnell said.

  It didn’t to me. C. J. usually spends her Sunday mornings doing New York Times crossword puzzles. Not solving them, mind you, but creating them.

  “C. J.—I mean, Crystal—why aren’t you home thinking up brain teasers?”

  “They never print them, Abby, so what’s the use? They claim they’re too difficult.”

  “That’s a shame.” I was sincere.

  “Yeah, well, the editor at Pravda says he might be interested. He’s going to let me know for sure next week.”

  I felt sorry for the kid. It had probably never occurred to her that one can’t just translate a crossword puzzle from one language into another.

  “Crystal, dear, I hate to tell you this, but translating them into Russian isn’t going to work.”

  “Don’t be silly, Abby, I know that. These are new puzzles I wrote in Russian.”

  “You know Russian?”

  C. J. nodded. “Not as good as I know Hungarian—but about on a par with my Hebrew and Greek. Definitely better than my Mandarin Chinese, but not nearly as good as my French, Spanish, and Portuguese.”

  Wynnell’s facial shrubbery shot up, while my jaw dropped. “You’re putting us on,” I said.

  C. J. shook her big blond head. “I speak seventeen languages, Abby. How many do you speak?”

  “Uh—at least one.”

  “Good one, Abby. You see, Granny Ledbetter thought we would get bored with our music lessons if she taught us only in English. When I took up the tuba—”

  “You play tuba, too?”

  “I play ten musical instruments, Abby. How many do you play?” There was no guile in the big gal’s voice.

  “Well, uh, I played
the kazoo in Mrs. Anderson’s third grade class. And I play the radio.”

  “Very funny, Abby. How about you, Wynnell?”

  Wynnell must have done something kind for someone that day. While she was struggling for words the mellifluous tones of the wooden chimes announced a customer.

  “Oops, sorry, gotta go!” Wynnell said and skipped off, grateful to be out of C. J.’s grasp.

  I had no choice but to accept the girl’s offer of transportation.

  I fully expected to find my house wrapped in yellow crime scene tape and at least one uniformed officer patrolling the premises. Much to my disappointment, my house and its environs looked no different than on any other day. But a murder had been committed in my home, for crying out loud. Why didn’t it rate the same sort of treatment I’d see other crime scenes receive on the six o’clock news?

  Perhaps C. J. really did have the second sight. “Don’t feel bad, Abby,” she said. “It just means that Greg is satisfied he has all the information he needs.”

  “It’s not Greg who’s in charge,” I snapped, “but a blond bimbo named Barbie.”

  We were still in the car, sitting in the driveway. C. J. unbuckled her seat belt and turned to me.

  “I know, Abby. I talked to her this morning. I was just trying to make you feel better. You always seem so happy when Greg’s name is mentioned. Your face just lights up. My granny gets like that when you say asparagus.”

  I waved a hand impatiently. “You spoke to Investigator Sharp?”

  “Abby, she spoke with everyone who was at the party.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, okay, I don’t know if she spoke to everyone, but your assistant Irene says she spoke with her. The Kefferts said the same thing. And—”

  “What did she ask? What did you say?”

  “She asked about your relationship with Tweetie, and did I know anyone else who might have had a motive.”

  “I didn’t have a motive to kill Tweetie,” I wailed. “It’s been at least a year since I stopped hating her.”

  “That’s what I told Ms. Sharp. Only I said it had been eight months. But I told her that you were not a violent person, because if you were, I’d know. It seems that I sort of bring out the worst in people in that regard. A woman back home in Shelby even said she wanted to punch my lights out.”

  I shrugged. C. J. could get under one’s skin, like chiggers on a raspberry bush, but I had never felt even the slightest bit violent toward her. And I have certainly never felt like striking her.

  “Abby,” C. J. continued, “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Always a dangerous thing,” I said with a chuckle.

  “Yeah, but this time I’ve really been thinking.”

  I unbuckled myself. “About?”

  “I was thinking maybe someone was trying to frame you.”

  “Me?”

  “Well, face it, Abby. You get under people’s skin, too.”

  “I do not—okay, maybe some folk’s skin, but if that’s the case, they deserve it.” I was only kidding, of course. I braced myself within the contours of the bucket seat. “You’re not thinking of anyone in particular, are you?”

  “Nah—well, there is Irene Cheng.”

  “She said that?”

  “She thinks you’re bossy.”

  “That’s because I’m her boss!” I wailed. “Besides, she has a lot of nerve! She’s practically taken over my shop.”

  “You’re right, I don’t think it’s Irene. But maybe it’s somebody who thinks you overcharged them for something. Or maybe you promised to sell a client a one-of-a-kind, big ticket item—something really rare—and then turned around and sold it to another for even less because you forgot your promise to the first person. Then maybe when the first person complained, you stuck out your tongue. Then maybe they called you childish, and you began crying like a baby. Then maybe—”

  “Crystal, this is beginning to sound like your story.”

  She blushed. “Well, I was way younger then. It happened over a year ago. My point is, Abby, that you need to stop and consider who your enemies might be.”

  “Point taken, dear.” I got out of her car and she clamored after me.

  “Abby, whatever happened to Tweetie’s sheep?”

  “Beats me.” I began a quick reconnoiter of the yard, peering into every shrubby clump and behind every tree. There was no trace of a sheep that I could see, not even a pungent calling card.

  “Ooh, Abby, look here,” C. J. squealed. She was staring at the camellia bush near the back steps that led up to the kitchen.

  I raced to her side.

  19

  “If that stupid sheep’s eaten my bush—”

  “Ooh, Abby, it’s not that. Look!”

  “Where?”

  C. J. plucked a thin white strip of something dangling from a lower leaf. She thrust so close to my face all I could see were her fingertips. I ducked, lest she pluck out my eyes.

  “This is lace, Abby. It came from the bottom of Tweetie’s pantaloons.”

  You have to hand it to a twenty-five year old who knows the P word. I took the bit of lace from my young friend and examined it. She could be right.

  “Let’s say it is,” I said. “So what?”

  “Abby, don’t you see? This means that Tweetie was killed right here by your back porch and thrown into the camellia bush.”

  I pushed her gently aside and examined the bush more carefully. Camellia japonica have large glossy leaves that are leathery in nature. It is easy to discern structural damage, and with the exception of one bent leaf, there was none.

  “Crystal, I don’t think she was thrown into the camellia. I don’t even think she was killed here. I mean, why would the killer lug her all the way upstairs in that heavy suit of armor? Why not just stash her here in the armor? But you may be on to something anyway. Either Tweetie, or her killer, may have brushed against this camellia-perhaps even roughly, while wearing that Little Bo Peep costume. Or,” I said, trying not to jump to conclusions, “this little scrap of material was dropped here by a bird, or maybe even the wind blew it over from a neighbor’s yard.”

  C. J. nodded solemnly. “Birds are all the time dropping things. And they’re smarter too than most people think. Did you know that ravens drop acorns on highways so that cars will crush the nuts open for them?”

  “Actually, I do,” I said proudly. Busy as I am, I still manage to read from time to time.

  “Now storks, they’re the smartest birds. They know just where to deliver the right baby.”

  “C. J., you can’t be serious! That’s just a made-up story. Something parents tell their children because they’re not comfortable telling the truth.”

  “I know that, silly. I know where babies come from—originally. But sometimes a stork will steal a baby from a home that doesn’t deserve to have it, and carry it to one that does. Like what happened to me.”

  I sat wearily on the bottom step. I was in no hurry to enter my house, and the afternoon sunshine felt good on my face.

  “Spill it,” I said kindly.

  C. J. plonked her big frame down beside mine. “Well, it was like this. Granny said there was this couple in town—that would be Shelby—that already had lots of kids, but they weren’t very nice to them. Then they had a little baby girl, and the couple got even meaner. They went off drinking all the time and I—I mean the baby girl—almost starved to death. So one day this stork flew over, saw what was going on, swooped down and wrapped the baby in a tablecloth, and carried it to Granny. And guess who that baby was?”

  “Jesus was born in a manger,” I said just to pull her chain. “Besides, where would they find three wise men and a virgin in Shelby?”

  “Ooh, Abby, that’s mean! Besides, that baby was me!”

  “I know,” I said, and patted her broad back affectionately. The girl never talked about her parents, and once when I questioned her, she said they were dead. Killed in a car accident, I believe. So, it wasn�
�t like that at all. Evidently C. J. had been plucked from an abusive home—not by a stork, I’m sure—and placed in foster care with an old farm lady who was battier than a belfry filled with vampires. No wonder the girl had a sandwich missing from her picnic hamper.

  C. J. smiled. “You’re my very best friend, Abby, you know that?”

  “You’re a dear sweet friend, too,” I said and stood. It was time to get the show on the road before she asked me to be more specific. Wynnell Crawford would always be my very best friend, unless—well, it was silly to even continue that thought. There was no way on God’s green earth my bushy-browed buddy was a cold-blooded killer.

  The house was cool and darker than I remembered. I flipped on the nearest kitchen light. A few stunned seconds later, I gasped.

  “What is it?” C. J. demanded. She had her fists clenched, ready to defend us against an assailant.

  “Just look,” I cried.

  C. J. spun in a full circle, nearly knocking me over. “I don’t see anybody. Did they run from the room?”

  “It’s not a person.” I waved my arms. “It’s this. The place is spotless!”

  “Abby, don’t scare me like that. A clean kitchen isn’t dangerous.”

  “But don’t you get it? Last night when I left to go to the Rob-Bobs, the place was a mess. Someone washed all the dishes.” I glanced down at the floor. “Oh my God, they’ve even mopped.”

  “Abby, you’re not making a lick of sense.”

  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, even though now they were both clean. “I wonder who it was?”

  “Ooh, I bet it was your mama.”

  “Not bloody likely, dear. If it was mama, we’d have read about it in the Charlotte Observer first, along with her account of how she endured thirty-six hours of agonizing labor for me.”

  “Good one, Abby. But no matter who did it, I guess you should be happy, huh?”

  I shivered. “I guess so—unless the person responsible for this was the same person who killed Tweetie. I mean, maybe they were trying to cover something up.”

  Apparently bigger people have less to fear, because C. J. had wandered off into the dining room. “Hey Abby,” she called, “why do you have all the drapes pulled?”