by Tamar Myers
“Cutting off drivers in traffic, and tailgating so close you can practically smell the breath of the person behind you?”
“Touché. Look, my mama throws a huge Christmas party every year. I’m sure I can get her to invite you.”
“Really?”
“Really. And if I know Mama, she’ll be more than happy to give y’all some lessons in Southernness before then. Who knows, by the time the party rolls around, you may even be able to pass.”
The first mate beamed. “Thank you, Mrs. Timberlake.”
“Please, call me Abby.”
“In that case, you may call me Terri. You know what, Abby? I think you and I are going to be friends.”
I smiled and stood, careful to put my weight on my left foot. “Terri it is. Say, are you sure your husband’s out?”
She looked startled, and then frowned. “Oh yes, he’s out. Abby, are you calling me a liar?”
It behooved me to tread carefully. “No, of course not. It’s just that—well, heck, Terri, I may as well come right out and say it. I was hoping to get a peek at his armor collection.”
She glanced around the room nervously. My eyes followed hers to one of the gnu heads. Was it my imagination, or did I really see a faint glow in one of the beast’s glassy eyes? Perhaps the captain was in after all, and spying at me through the mounted head—then again, I’ve always had an active imagination.
“Abby,” she said softly, “I could show you the captain’s armor collection, but you’d have to promise never to tell him. Or anyone else for that matter. Things have a way of getting around and Richard—I mean, the captain—would be very upset with me.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye,” I said blithely.
She smiled. “Follow me.”
I was astounded by all the space inside that stucco ship. Terri led me along passageways lined with tightly closed doors and down flights of stairs so steep, they were virtually nothing more than ladders. Finally, where one would expect to find the engine room on a real ship, she paused outside a low wood door and felt along the lintel for a key.
“Get ready,” she said as she unlocked the door. “It’s quite something.”
I thought I was ready, but nothing could have prepared me for what greeted my eyes when Terri finally found and turned on the light switch. Before me lay a replica of a medieval torture chamber. The walls were made out of concrete stones, of the sort often found in zoo displays. These had been shellacked in areas to make it appear as if they were dripping with moisture. Chains as thick as my wrist hung from the ceiling and extended from the walls, and attached to these by shackles were lifelike figures of people. So real were they that I couldn’t help but scream.
Terri laughed. “They’re just wax, Abby. Those three are castoffs from Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum in London, and that one came from the Ripley’s museum in Gatlinburg. The rest we acquired from private sales and auctions.”
I stared at the morbid exhibits with the fascination of a tourist. The majority of the wax figures were merely shackled to the walls or dangled from the ceiling, but two were hooked up to instruments of torture. One man, his mouth wide open in a silent scream, was stretched across the infamous “rack.” A second figure, that of a woman, was about to be embraced by the killing hug of the Iron Maiden.
I caught my breath. “You haven’t let your neighbors see this, have you? I mean, if you have, this could be why—”
She laughed again. “Heavens no. This is the private part of our—or should I say, the captain’s—private collection. Personally, Abby, I find this creepy.”
That was a relief. Not that thirteen gnu heads weren’t creepy enough, but I try not to be judgmental. Still, if indeed I did end up in Charleston like Greg wanted, I was going to miss folks like the Kefferts. No doubt Charleston had its share of crazies, too, but it would take me a while to ferret them out.
I glanced around the room again. “I don’t see any armor,” I said warily. After all, I’d seen that Twilight Zone episode in which real people were encased in wax and put on display.
“The armor’s through here,” she said and pushed lightly against one of the fake stones. At her touch an entire wall, including two chained wax prisoners, swung away from us, revealing a much larger and very different room.
This new chamber contained no obvious horrors. To the contrary, it looked liked a fairy-tale version of a castle throne room. In fact, there were two thrones, one larger than the other, on a dais at the far end, and they made the rosewood throne in the living room look crude by comparison. Resting on each red velvet seat was a gold crown, and over one armrest of the larger throne lay a purple velvet robe with what looked like ermine trim. Leading up to the dais was a runner of red carpet, and on either side stood rows of life-size knights in full armor. These were not wax figures, mind you, but solid wood carvings capable of supporting the weight of their respective regalia.
This time I merely gasped in astonishment. “This is just incredible!”
The room was illuminated by wall-mounted gas torches that had presumably been ignited by the opening of the door. The flickering light was just bright enough for me to see that Terri was blushing.
“Richard and I like to pretend that he’s Arthur and that I’m Guinevere. This room is our Camelot.”
“Where’s the round table?”
She giggled nervously. “That’s in another room. Abby, I know you must think we’re real nut cases, but we never had children. What I’m trying to say is, this is our hobby. I mean, is it really any different than playing with model trains, or collecting Raggedy Ann dolls? We’re not hurting anyone.” She was beginning to sound desperate for approval.
“Except for those poor folks back there,” I said with a jerk of my thumb, and laughed.
She smiled gratefully at my joke. “Richard sometimes takes our little game too far. Not that he would ever do that to a real person—I didn’t mean that.” She shook her head to signify a change of subject. “Well, here’s the armor you wanted to see. Of course to us they’re knights, and they all have names, but I won’t bore you with that.”
“Please bore away,” I cried. In the dim light I was already examining the nearest suit. Sure enough, it had a neat little dent on the lower right quadrant of the breastplate. However, as I’ve already made clear, I am no expert on armature. Still, even to my untrained eye this particular suit did not look English. I expressed my observation aloud.
“You’re right, it’s not,” Terri said without batting an eyelash. “This is where Arthur receives visitors from all over the world. These,” she said, waving her arms at the rows of knights, “have come to petition admittance to Arthur’s court.”
She introduced the steel-clad statues as if they were living men, and I, playing along, spoke briefly to each in turn. As I did so, I studied their armature. All but three bore the proof mark, but none was in so fine a shape as the suit in which Tweetie had been found dead. No wonder the Captain had been so eager to pay big bucks for the mystery armor.
Then a chilling thought crossed my mind; what if Captain Keffert already owned the mystery suit? What if his attempt to purchase the cuirass was merely a ruse?
“Terri,” I said calmly, “does the captain—or should I say, the king—ever wear any of the suits?”
She blushed again. “Why would King Arthur dress like a knight?”
“Change can be fun.” I’ve said those same words to Mama innumerable times.
She looked down at the concrete floor. “Sometimes he does like to be Sir Galahad.”
“And you? Whom do you like to be?”
“Arthur,” she whispered.
“Indeed.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Richard enjoys being—well, bossed around. Sometimes if he’s really naughty he has to spend time in there.” She jerked a thumb in the direction of the torture chamber.
It was my turn to blush. The two of them were probably as old as Mama, for crying
out loud. I wasn’t about to ask if the Connecticut captain ever played the part of Guinevere.
“Do either of you ever wear the suits out in public? You know, like to Renaissance festivals and such?”
She looked up. The shock on her face was genuine.
“Heavens no. These are valuable pieces. We’re really very careful with them. These rooms are climatically controlled.”
“Just asking, dear.”
We stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment. “How long has your husband been trying to acquire a genuine seventeenth-century Italian cuirass?” I finally asked.
It was intended as a trick question, but Terri didn’t miss a beat. “Ever since he saw it on TV this morning. Frankly, Abby, my husband thinks you’ve been holding out on him.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I cried. “I told him I don’t own that suit.”
She put a hand on my arm as if to quiet me and then, much to my surprise, her bony fingers found my wrist and she began to pull me toward the thrones. I tried to slip out of her grasp without seeming rude, but the talons tightened.
“Come with me,” she all but purred, “there’s a little room behind the dais you’ve just got to see.”
I’d reached my spookiness quota for the day. I gently pried her fingers open with my free hand, and once liberated took a quick step back, almost knocking over a knight.
“I’ve got an appointment,” I said. “Actually, it’s a date with a Charlotte detective. I told him to meet me here, because the restaurant we’re going to is in Belmont.”
Terri glanced at her watch. “It’s a little early for dinner, isn’t it?”
It’s hard to stay on your toes, especially with a wounded ankle. “He’s an old detective. He likes his dinner early.”
“At three?”
“He goes to bed at seven. Look, I’ve really got to go.”
She stepped forward, her hands outstretched, and that’s when I considered bolting. I know it was silly of me. She wasn’t that much larger than I and she had a good twenty years on me. If her objective was to turn me into a wax specimen for the Keffert Chamber of Horrors, brute strength was not on her side. Of course, if she’d had a gun in her hand, that would have been another story. But who knew what was literally hiding up her sleeve? Or, for all I knew, the floor beneath me could suddenly give way and I’d plunge into a pit replete with pendulum.
If it is better to be safe than sorry, then it is better to be a fool than to risk being turned into a giant candle. So bolt is what I did. I fled through the torture room and down the long hallway. My adrenaline was pumping so hard I didn’t even feel my foot. As for the steep metal stairs, I think I must have flown up them.
At last I stumbled, panting, into the warm autumn sunshine. A mockingbird singing in the crape myrtle and the distant drone of boats on the lake assured me that all was right with the world
“You silly fool,” I muttered to myself. Then, just as quickly as I could, I got in my car and drove off to tilt at another windmill.
23
The traffic gods were with me and it took me only a half hour to get to Myers Park. I’d driven by the Larkins’ house a number of times, but had never had the occasion to stop in. It was time to invent one.
“Hey there,” I said, oozing mock cheer, when Regina opened the door. “You didn’t, by any chance, happen to leave this behind last night?” I held up a small blue umbrella folded to the size of a large sausage. It was a near permanent resident under the front seat of my car.
Regina is about my age, but she has it together in a way I’ll never have. In honor of the season she was dressed in a camel skirt, topped by a rust cashmere sweater. She was wearing pantyhose—something I try to avoid as much as possible—and her camel and rust shoes, by Gucci, I think, undoubtedly cost more than my monthly car payment. A simple gold wrist bangle and gold hoop earrings completed the look of casual elegance.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if Regina had been a homely woman. But she was, as my son Charlie would describe a woman his own age, “a real babe.” A few wisps of gray aside, the woman couldn’t have aged much since high school. I look young for my age as well, but undeniably there are parts of me that have migrated southward. Regina, on the other hand, was disgustingly in place. I would have been intensely jealous were it not for the knowledge that often people who appear to have it all together on the outside are suffering deeply on the inside. I don’t have any proof that this is so, and I can’t even remember where I read that, but I choose to believe it is true.
She stared at the compact umbrella I waved before her, looking utterly confused. I wasn’t sure she’d heard my question.
“Is this yours?” I asked again.
Regina shook her head. “Gracious no,” she drawled, without a trace of Yankee accent. “It didn’t rain last night.”
I smiled pleasantly. She was going to be a hard nut to crack. Both Regina and her husband, Donald, are chameleons. If I hadn’t heard from a reliable source—Wynnell knows her Yankees every bit as well as she knows her armor—I never would have guessed that the couple originally hailed from Poughkeepsie, New York. Over the twenty-odd years they’ve lived in Charlotte they’ve shed every trace of Northern beginnings and become virtual Southerners.
Don’t get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with trying to fit in, as long as one’s motives are pure. After all, imitation is the highest form of flattery. The Larkins, however, had done an uncanny job of melding with the locals, so uncanny in fact, that in my book they were suspect. If you ask me, anyone capable of such total assimilation is capable of just about anything. Lying was a given. As for murder—well, I’d just have to see about that.
“But thanks for checking,” Regina said as she started to close the door.
I waved the umbrella again. “Well, I just wanted to make sure this wasn’t yours.”
Like I said, Regina, when not yelling at me for having been evicted from my party, was practically the genuine thing. She paused and pretended to think things over.
“Well, silly me,” she said, as if she’d suddenly seen the light. “I don’t know where I left my manners. Won’t you come in, Mrs. Timberlake?”
“Well, uh—” I said just to be polite.
Regina stepped aside, a broad hostess grin on her face. “I’ve just made a fresh pitcher of sweet tea. The chocolate chip cookies I made this morning.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” I said, with perhaps just a tad too much gusto. Even if Regina proved to be no more informative than the local five o’clock news, the tea and cookies would certainly hit the spot. After what might have happened at the Kefferts’ house, a sugar fix was definitely in order.
I took two steps into the large foyer and stopped dead in my tracks. Ahead of me was a doorway that opened onto a wide hall, but on either side stood a full suit of armor. I must have gasped.
“Sort of takes one aback, doesn’t?” Regina said with a laugh. “Personally, I think it’s too much. I’m trying to get Donald to donate them to a museum somewhere. Maybe the Mint.”
I scrutinized the suit on my left. There were a number of small round holes on the breastplate, but no dents. The entire garniture was beautifully etched in an intricate design.
“Are they real?”
Regina laughed generously, her mouth opening to an astonishing size. “Oh yes. We picked them up on a trip to Heidelberg a couple of years ago. According to the dealer, the one you’re looking at may have—or I should say, some of the pieces may have—belonged to Emperor Maximilian I. Well, when he was Archduke Maximilian of Austria, at any rate.”
“But I don’t see a proof mark,” I wailed. Sometimes my mouth deserves a good shushing.
Regina laughed again. “That’s because these pieces were made in the mid-fifteen hundreds. Firearms were not such an issue then.”
I cringed. Oh, the shame of knowing less about an antiquity than one of my regular clients.
“Do you have others besides these two?”
“No, just these two. Mrs. Timberlake, I didn’t realize you were so interested in armor.” Her lips arranged themselves into a smile, but I know an accusation when I hear one. Regina Larkin was telling me loud and clear that she fully suspected my visit was in connection with Tweetie’s death.
The best way to allay any suspicions was to come clean—well, not squeaky clean, of course. “I’ve never had a keen interest in it,” I said. “At least not until last night. I guess you know by now that my ex-husband’s wife was found dead in a suit of armor.”
“In your house, I believe.”
I must confess that I’d driven all the way to Myers Park with only loosely formulated questions in my mind. I needed a few more minutes to focus.
“That’s correct,” I said calmly. “Say, didn’t you say something about sweet tea and cookies?”
“That I did! Mercy me, where are my manners? Please, Mrs. Timberlake, follow me.”
I noted with satisfaction that Regina called me Mrs. Timberlake, and not Abby. That was very Southern of her. Until I gave her permission to use my first name, she could not presume a personal relationship. Her invitation to my party, mind you, had been purely a business consideration.
She led me into what was quite obviously the formal living room. That was fine with me. Some folks feel more welcome when invited into the den, but I had no desire to cozy up with Pinocchio. Not after her accusations the night before. I may be a lot smaller than an elephant, but my memory is just as long.
Regina excused herself to the kitchen, and I took advantage of her absence to study the room. It was far more traditional and understated than the pair of metal warriors in the hall might suggest. The color scheme was drawn from a large, predominantly yellow and rose Aubusson rug of floral design, which was centered on the highly polished hardwood floor. The walls were papered in the same pale yellow, and the drapes were just a few shades darker. There were two couches flanking the fireplace at right angles, and their background was rose. Here and there were small touches of green, also drawn from the rug. Two cream and rose Chinese prints, in black lacquered frames, hung on either side of the mantel. They were the only exotic touches.
