by Tamar Myers
I took a step closer. “What about that man?”
“Don’t you be playing games with me, child. You’ve got that same shifty look about you. My nephew sent y’all out here, didn’t he?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I’m not signing anything. Go ahead, pull out your gun and shoot me. My nephew’s not inheriting a thing.”
“I don’t have a gun,” I said patiently.
“But he does. Go ahead, call him. Get this over with. I’m not afraid to die.”
I took another step closer. I didn’t even think about it.
“The man with the big ears and baggy green coveralls has a gun?”
Alma Lou dropped to her knees—more accurately, she folded like a warped wooden beach chair. “Shoot if you must this old gray head, but you can’t force me to sign.”
I stepped back. “Your head’s white, dear, and I have no intention of shooting you.”
Pinky dug strong fingers into my elbow and steered me out into the hallway. “Sorry, Miss Timberlake, but she gets that way sometimes.”
“You mean paranoid?”
“Yeah, she thinks her nephew’s out to get her money. But the truth is, Miss Timberlake, I don’t think she even has her a nephew. I been here three years now, and there ain’t never been anyone that I know of out to see her.”
“Does she even have money?”
Pinky shrugged. “Her bills get paid. But, Lord, she a handful, that one. Always getting into other people’s things. Always making up stories. And losing things! Third time this week she lose them teeth.”
“I see. Pinky, I know you were in the kitchen just a few minutes ago, but did you ever seen a man with really big ears out here? Kind of looks like Mickey Mouse?”
“A white man?”
“Yes.”
Pinky smiled. “All you white folks look the same to me.”
“That’s a ‘no’?”
“That’s what I said.” She glanced up and down the short hall. “I best be getting back to Miss Alma Lou. Last time, I found them teeth of hers in the toilet.”
I said good-bye to Pinky and, on my way out, said good-bye to Miss Adele. She was asleep by then, her eyes open, her mouth open as well. I tucked the afghan tighter around the trio before stepping outside into the shimmering heat.
I had a sense that someone was following me, although there wasn’t a car to be seen in the rearview mirror. My friend Magdalena Yoder says that a hunch from a woman is worth two facts from a man. She’s right, you know. Most of us would do well to follow our gut feelings until we’ve been proven wrong. Since I’ve always had a pretty good hunch indicator—even though I’m not blessed with a nose like Mama’s—I decided to put my intuition to the test.
About a mile and a half from Pine Manor, the road curves to the right, and at the apex of the curve stands a copse of trees. Apparently it is easier for farmers to plant their cotton in straight lines. At any rate, anticipating this curve, I slowed considerably, and just past the copse I pulled over and stopped altogether.
Within a few minutes, a Harley Davidson drove by. About a quarter mile down the road, the Harley driver slowed and looked my way. At least, I thought he did. The heat dancing off the black tarmac made it hard to tell.
“Uh-oh,” I said and, using the driver skills I learned as a somewhat reckless teenager, I made an abrupt U-turn and pressed the pedal to the metal. In the rearview mirror, road and cyclist shimmied and shimmered. They appeared to be getting closer.
“Better safe than sorry,” I said and went to plan B.
Thank heavens that, as that somewhat reckless teenager, I had done more than just drive the back roads of York County. To be frank, I’d “parked” on a few as well, and I knew that the next road past Pine Manor in the other direction was a gravel lane that twists and turns along a streambed until it intersects with Route 901. You can bet I slowed for it, but the cyclist must have slowed as well. At any rate, I seemed to have lost him after the first turn, if indeed he was even following me at all. By the time I got to the highway, my hunch indicator was registering zero. In fact, I was feeling like a bit of a fool—but a safe fool, not a sorry one.
It was this state of mind that is to blame for the very foolish thing I did next.
12
I drove straight to the Queen’s house. She is, after all, the clearinghouse for all information in Rock Hill. If anyone knew the scoop on Gilbert Sweeny, it would be her. She doesn’t have a water glass surgically attached to her ear for nothing. Okay, so that’s perhaps a slight exaggeration, but you get my point. The woman knows everything.
At any rate, Her Majesty doesn’t live in one of Rock Hill’s newer, more posh neighborhoods; she resides in a commanding, yet unpretentious, two-story Greek Revival home in the old-money section of town. I parked in the shade of a lofty willow oak and followed a long, liriope-lined walk to the house. A lush fescue lawn at this season, plus topiary camellias up against the house, confirmed the rumor that You Know Who had a gardener in her employ.
Imagine my surprise when the grande dame herself, and not some liveried butler, opened the door. She seemed surprised as well.
“Oh.”
“Hello, Mrs. Hunt. I’m Abigail Timberlake. May I have a minute of your time?”
“Well…uh…I don’t really have much time this afternoon. Perhaps if you called, I could look at my schedule and arrange something.” As she spoke, cool tongues of air slipped through her open door and licked at my legs.
“Mrs. Hunt, this will only take a minute. I promise.”
“You’re that woman from church last night, right? The one who bid such a ridiculous amount on a silly painting.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It wasn’t an original, you know?”
“Yes, ma’am, I know that. But it has a decent frame.”
“Oh, well, I suppose I can afford the loss better than you. All right, I’ll take it off your hands for what you paid for it. Maybe I can persuade Father Foss to hang it in his office.”
“Ma’am, I didn’t come here to sell the painting.” Priscilla Hunt was only two years older than I, but I was ma’am-ing her like a schoolgirl. I hated myself for it but was powerless to stop. I had been raised by a proper southern mother and knew my place in the pecking order by the time I was six and started school.
“Then why are you here?”
The cool air teased my thighs. “I’m here about Gilbert Sweeny.”
“What about Gilbert?”
“Well, my mama—Mozella Wiggins—says she heard Gilbert is dead.”
Priscilla Hunt stared at me. I had the feeling she was willing me to disappear. If she didn’t invite me in, that might well happen. I’ve never seen it personally, but I’ve heard tales of folks literally melting away on Carolina sidewalks in July.
“Is this true, ma’am?”
“Yes,” she said and sighed. “Come on in.”
I followed her past the formal living room, which was apparently too good for me, and back to the den. There she bade me sit on a wingback chair upholstered in mauve fabric that was accented with gold crowns, while she sat on a butter-colored Italian leather recliner. Imagine that, the Queen of Rock Hill sitting on a La-Z-Boy.
“Would you care for some tea? Some cookies?”
“That would be awfully kind,” I said. I was thirsty, but even if I had been sloshing with liquid, I would have said yes. Nothing would make me happier at that moment than to have the Queen of Rock Hill get off her duff to serve me stuff.
As suspected, the tea offered was iced tea, and already made, and the cookies Archway, but I got my thrills nonetheless. And of course I minded my middle-class manners and not only thanked her profusely but carried on about the victuals until I embarrassed even myself.
“Now then,” she said, reclaiming the buttery recliner, “what exactly did you hear?”
“I heard that it was suicide. Is that true?”
She nodded. “As a matter of fact, I just got off
the phone with Albert Singleton,” she said, referring to Rock Hill’s new police chief, “and he said it’s official.”
“Pills?”
She took a sip of tea, and I am pleased to report that she slurps. “Yes, apparently a mixture of things. I really don’t know all the details. Tell me, dear, why are you so interested?”
I took a silent sip. “I heard through the grapevine that I was implicated in the note.”
Again, her face registered surprise. “Who told you that?”
“I can’t reveal my sources.”
She slurped like a teenager at the end of a milk shake. “Perhaps your sources are not reliable.”
I regarded her evenly. “I don’t think so, ma’am. The ultimate source seems to be you.”
She stiffened, and the buttery recliner reclined a little. “Well, I was trying to spare you, but if you insist, I will share the details.”
“Please do.”
“Poor Gilbert Sweeny made a horrible mistake last night. That painting belonged to his stepmother, you see. And even though it was just a hideous copy, it had great sentimental value to her. The poor woman is devastated.”
I couldn’t imagine that Adele Sweeny cared a hoot about some painting. All she wanted to know was what day it was. I decided to play it cool.
“I’m sure she’s even more devastated now that Gilbert’s dead,” I said.
Priscilla Hunt looked like a sheep that had been asked an algebra question.
“Or hasn’t she been told?” Let Her Majesty squirm. It was good exercise for her back.
“Yes, I’m sure she’s been told. She’s Gilbert’s stepmother, after all.”
“Well, if she hasn’t, I’d be happy to drive out there myself and tell her. She’s at Pine Manor, right? I love the countryside.”
My hostess used all of her facial muscles, and a few from her neck, to smile. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this…” She paused. “Can you keep a secret?”
“My lips are sealed tighter than a clam at low tide.”
“Hortense Simms owns that nursing home.”
“Get out of town!”
“It’s a fact. I saw the record last year when I was—well, doing some research at City Hall. Imagine buying an entire nursing home just to put your mama in.”
“So she can forget her?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
She leaned eagerly forward. “But of course, dear.”
“From what I understand, Hortense Simms doesn’t visit her mama very much. In fact, according to the staff, hardly at all.”
“You don’t say! And she has the nerve to put on airs.”
“Don’t you just hate uppity people?”
Her Majesty shuddered. “I can’t abide a snob. Why take that new family who just moved in down the street—Hartz, their last name is. They plan to send their children to a private school in Charlotte and—,” she lowered her voice, “—their bedsheets are 100 percent silk.”
“You don’t say!” I reluctantly put down my tea and stood. “Well, you’ve been very gracious Your Maj—I mean, Mrs. Hunt. But I really must go; duty calls.”
She stood. “You have jury duty?”
“Work.” No doubt it was a new word for her vocabulary list. “I closed my shop for the day, but I have lots of new inventory to sort through and price. I’ve hired an assistant who starts tomorrow, but I’ll be so busy teaching her how to use the register and wait on customers that I won’t have time for stock.”
She nodded. “Well, like I said before, I’d be happy to take that hideous painting off your hands. Might give you one less thing to do.”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?”
Professionally plucked brows raised inquisitively. “Tell me what, dear?”
“I already sold the painting.”
“Congratulations, dear. I hope you made a tidy profit.”
Trust me, that was a question, not a statement. I patiently said nothing.
“Well?”
“Frankly, ma’am, that’s none of your business.”
Priscilla Hunt does indeed have blue blood. She blanched, and I could see every vein in her face.
“Really!”
Perhaps I should have been born a cat. I love tuna, am litter box trained, and enjoy toying with the mice I catch.
“Let’s just say I’m going to be a very wealthy woman.”
Eyebrows arched again. “Oh?”
“In fact, if I were to move back to Rock Hill, then I would be the wealthiest woman.”
“Surely you’re joking!”
“Absolutely not.”
“But that was just a silly little painting.”
“Well, not to the right buyer, it wasn’t.” That was quite true, albeit somewhat misleading.
“And who was that?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Oh, just a small thing called vendor-client confidentiality.”
“Nonsense. It’s not like you’re a doctor or a lawyer.”
“Oh, but it is. It’s the same principle.”
“Really! I don’t suppose you would mind then, if I called the Chamber of Commerce and checked on that?”
“Call away! But I don’t see why this interests you so much. In fact, I don’t see why you stick your nose into half the stuff you do.” Rest assured that I spoke calmly, and with my charming southern accent, so I didn’t come across as nearly as rude as you might think.
“Well!”
“Face it, dear, as long as lions and tigers can’t hide in Ben Hunter’s grass, it’s not your business how often he cuts it. It may possibly be his neighbor’s business, but it’s certainly not yours. You live three blocks away. And why can’t Sarah Jenkins hang purple drapes in her windows? It happens to be her favorite color. And about that nice family from Germany and their tree house—what kind of welcome to America is that? And believe me, you’re never going to get Mama to switch toilet paper brands. Well, maybe you could if you convinced her that they didn’t have the quilted kind in 1958 and found her some really good coupons.”
“Why, I never!”
“Which could be part of your problem. Then again, maybe not. I’ve been celibate for two years now—ever since my marriage ended—but I don’t go around poking my pert nose in other people’s business. Well, except for my children’s, and that’s allowed. And furthermore, just how do you know your new neighbors’ sheets are 100 percent silk?”
“Miss Timberlake!” Her Majesty strode to the front door and yanked it open.
I ambled after her. “You know, dear, if sex isn’t your bag, you could find a hobby. Perhaps you could collect Beanie Babies.”
She didn’t exactly throw me out. But she did put her hand on my elbow, and if an opportunistic lawyer had driven by at the right moment, we might have had a lawsuit. At any rate, I could count on not being invited to the Queen’s annual tea in April. I just hoped I hadn’t jeopardized Mama’s dinner invitation for Saturday night.
A smart Abby would have driven straight home, locked the doors, and thought things through. A really smart Abby would have given Rob the blasted painting and washed her tiny hands of the whole thing. When you meet smart Abby, say hello from me.
This Abby drove back to Selwyn Avenue and the Den of Antiquity. I keep a stack of reference books behind the counter, and I was flipping through the index of a tome on nineteenth-century art when someone knocked on the door.
“I’m closed,” I called without looking up.
“Abby, it’s me, Buster!”
“Who?” It was one of those unsettling experiences, like meeting someone on the beach whom you know only from church. You can place the face but not the bulges, and of course the name escapes you.
“Buster! You know, your boyfriend from Georgetown, South Carolina.”
“Georgetown!” I flew to the door. Buster is not exactly my boyfriend, but we date and h
ave a good rapport. Because Buster and I live in cities that are four hours apart, we see each other only on weekends, and not every weekend, either. Sometimes I go down there and stay with his aunt, and sometimes he comes up here and stays in a hotel. We never see each other on Thursdays.
“Hey, Abby,” he said happily after giving me a quick peck. “I know we didn’t schedule anything for this weekend, but I had a consultation this morning in Charlotte. Hope you don’t mind an impromptu visit. Or is this a bad time?”
I met Floyd Busterman Connelly, known to all as Buster, in his capacity as coroner of Georgetown County, South Carolina. He also happens to be a doctor, on staff at Georgetown Memorial Hospital. I have purposely withheld this second piece of information from Mama. If Mama knew I was dating an M.D., she would run out and rent a wedding hall. As things stood, Mama believed Buster to be a mere slicer and dicer of cadavers, and therefore a rung or two below Greg on the social scale.
“It’s never a bad time for you to visit.” I grabbed one of Buster’s arms and pulled him into the shop. “You won’t believe what’s happened.”
Buster was wearing a predominantly green polo shirt with vertical navy and white stripes. It made him look taller than the mere five feet fate had assigned him.
“Let’s see, Abby…you won the Illinois state lottery and you’re fixing to buy Tahiti as your personal playground.”
“Lucky guess! Oh, well, you want to play?”
“Love to. You put on your grass skirt while I tune my ukulele.”
You see what I mean? Buster has a sense of humor, something Greg doesn’t even know he’s missing.
I locked the door behind Buster. “I probably could buy a small island somewhere. I bought a painting last night that’s worth ten million dollars. Maybe even twenty. And get this, I paid only $150.99.”
Buster whistled. “Holy whiskers! How’d you get a deal like that?”
“It’s an old van Gogh. It was stuck behind another painting—a very bad painting—in a rather nice frame.”
“A van Gogh?”
“Field of Thistles. I know you’ve probably never even heard of it, but—”
“But I have.”
My heart raced. “No kidding?”
