by Tamar Myers
This smell, which lingers even after my love showers, is one that I hope to eventually get used to. For our cat, Dmitri, it is heaven. The second Greg returns from a fishing trip, our ten-pound puddytat is wrapped around his legs like kelp on a buoy rope. Today was no exception.
Greg picked up the ten-pound lug and cradled him like a baby. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “We just decided to follow the tide in and call it a day.” The “we” Greg was referring to were his cousins Bo and Skeeter, partners in the venture.
“How many pounds was your catch?”
“Two hundred.”
C.J.’s eyes widened. “Wow! That’s some big shrimp!”
Greg laughed. “That’s actually thousands of shrimp. But it’s not as much as it sounds. Old-timers tell me they used to catch two thousand pounds on a good day.”
C.J. wrinkled her nose. Her lips were pulled back like those of a snarling dog.
“Y’all sure do eat a lot of shrimp down here, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “As a matter of fact, that’s what I’m planning to serve for supper.”
The big gal struggled to keep her nose from disappearing altogether. “Sounds wonderful, Abby.”
I knew she was lying through her exposed teeth, so I was stringing her along. There was, in fact, a nice pork tenderloin in the refrigerator, just waiting to be popped into the oven.
“Good,” I said, “because I’m serving shrimp cocktail, followed by shrimp bisque, then shrimp Creole. And for dessert, homemade shrimp ice cream.”
C.J. turned seafoam-green about the gills. “Ooh, Abby, I’m sure your shrimp ice cream is delicious, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon pass. I ate too much of that at Granny’s last Thanksgiving and—well, it kind of left a bad taste in my mouth.”
I chuckled. “Good one, dear.”
“Abby, I’m serious.”
“Give me a break, C.J.”
My friend would not give up. “But it’s true, Abby. I made it myself on Granny’s crank-style freezer. It went really well with the pumpkin and shrimp pie Cousin Alvin brought.”
I changed the subject by showing Greg—at a distance—the exquisite perfume bottle Amelia Shadbark had given me. He was suitably impressed.
We spent a pleasant evening, the four of us. After Greg showered, we three humans devoured the tender loin, along with several side dishes, while Dmitri made short shrift of a can of gourmet cat food. Afterward Greg dozed in front of the television, remote in hand, Dmitri in his lap, while C.J. and I played a quick game of Scrabble. We weren’t in a hurry, by any means—it’s just that C.J. trounced me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew every word in the official Scrabble dictionary, and how to spell it, forward and backward.
I finally gave up, woke Greg so we could go to bed, and said good night to C.J.
“Abby,” she said, as we stood in the hall, “you’re not going to do those silly tricks again tonight, are you?”
“What tricks?”
“You know, knocking on my door, and then hiding when I answer it. Ooh, and jangling all those keys. That was a good one! Where did you get so many?”
“C.J., I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.”
The girl yawned so wide a circus tiger could have stuck his head in her mouth. No doubt about it, another benefit of being short was that I couldn’t see the remains of her supper.
“Have it your way, Abby. I’ll pretend it’s a ghost, if that’s what you want.”
“Ghost?”
“Abby, everyone knows that a lot of these old houses are supposed to be haunted.”
“Well—some people claim they are.”
C.J. shivered. “Yeah, but is this house haunted?”
“I don’t know.” I really didn’t. I’d purposely not asked our real estate agent if there were any ghosts associated with this place. My imagination is far too active as it is.
My guest was suddenly wide awake. “I mean, because if it is, I can’t stay.”
“C.J.!”
“I’m not kidding, Abby. I know most ghosts are harmless—maybe they all are, just being spirits and such—but they scare me. So, if that wasn’t you last night, making all that noise, then I’ve got to go.”
“Where?”
“To a motel, I guess.”
“C.J., it’s the height of tourist season. You might not find a room this time of the night, and even if you do, it will cost you a small fortune.”
“That’s true, Abby. So quit teasing me, and admit it was you.”
“But it wasn’t—”
The color drained from her face. “Then I’m outta here.”
I grabbed a gangly arm. “Don’t be ridiculous, C.J. If you want, I’ll sleep in there with you. Or you can have Mama’s room until she gets back.”
C.J. wrenched free of my grip. “Have you ever slept in your mama’s room?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know if it’s haunted, do you?”
“No, but we can call her—no, wait a minute. She’s staying in one of the cabins at Kanuga. They don’t have phones.”
“Bye-bye, Abby.”
“Then stay in our room,” I cried.
“With you and Greg?” Thank heavens she sounded skeptical, and not hopeful.
“I’m sure Greg’s gone back to sleep by now. You and I can drag your mattress across the hall. We’ll find room for it at the foot of our bed.”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “But if I scream, you have to promise to come to my rescue.”
“I will,” I promised.
There was, alas, no one to come to my rescue. Greg slept like a hibernating grizzly—one experiencing horrendous nightmares. Although sound asleep, he thrashed about and moaned continuously. It was worse than sex.
Meanwhile Dmitri, attracted to our bed by the lingering smell of fish, sought refuge on my side. Being a lap cat, Dmitri prefers to sleep on top of me, or, since we’ve been married, on top of Greg. He prefers Greg, I am convinced, because of the extra surface area. Tonight was no exception. But every few minutes the ten-pound oaf would abandon his bigger buddy and clamber aboard my small frame. As soon as Greg settled, Dmitri hopped off me again.
I might even have been able to sleep through all this, were it not for C.J. The girl has a deviated septum, and it was certainly deviant tonight. You’ve never heard such snores. There are tugboats in Charleston Harbor with softer, more melodic horns than C.J.’s schnoz. One thing is for sure; if the girl had slept that soundly, and loudly, the night before, there was no way she could have heard jangling keys. Or even a loud rap on the door.
At four A.M. the alarm went off and Greg got up for work. If he thought it unusual to find a five-foot-ten-inch blond sleeping at the foot of his bed, he kept it to himself. With Greg gone, Dmitri finally settled down enough to enable me to drift off to sleep. C.J.’s tugboat snores hadn’t abated, but I pretended to be sprawled on a deck chair of a cruise ship, a book in one hand, a stiff drink in the other. That seemed to do the trick, because I gradually incorporated those images into a dream. My dream, however, offered no explanation for the large tomcat on my chest.
I slept for about four hours. I’m sure I would have slept until noon, had I not been rudely awakened by someone shaking me.
“Not now, dear,” I muttered. “I have a headache.”
“Wake up, Abby. It’s important.”
“Some other time, Greg. C.J.’s in the room with us.”
“But Abby, it’s me—C.J.!”
I opened one eye. “It is you. Do me a favor, dear. Make yourself some breakfast and chill out in another room. There’s cable TV, of course, and plenty of books. I’ll join you in, say, four hours?”
“Sorry, Abby, but no can do.”
“Of course you can. There’s cereal and milk, if you don’t feel like cooking. Even a package or two of instant grits—but they’re hidden behind that five-pound bag of sugar on the spice shelf.” Mama woul
d disown me if she ever found out I used the instant product. In my defense, let me explain that I use it only when she’s out of town, and then it’s usually when I’m running late.
“Abby, I already had breakfast. And so did the detectives.”
“That’s nice, dear. Then—” I opened the other eye, pushed a reluctant Dmitri off my chest, and sat up. “What did you say?”
“I said I cooked breakfast for Investigators Scrubb and Bright. At first I thought they were missionaries, on account they dressed so neatly, and there were two of them. I told them I already belonged to a church, thank you very much, which really isn’t true, Abby, because Granny’s church back in Shelby burned to the ground, and since it was the only one of its denomination, I haven’t belonged anywhere for a long time.” She paused to breathe. “Then they said they weren’t missionaries, but detectives, and asked to speak to you personally. I told them you were sleeping in, and that I wasn’t going to wake you. So then they told me why they were here, and I agreed to wake you—but only after I made them breakfast. I wanted to buy you a little time, you see. Anyway, now they say they’ve waited long enough, and if you’re not out there in three minutes, they’re going to get a warrant.” She wagged a long, thick finger at me. “Abby, you really should buy a better brand of bacon. What you’ve got in there now is far too lean. I had no choice but to serve it crisp.”
Bless C.J.’s oversize heart. Her ramblings had given me enough time to wake sufficiently to think. I still wasn’t operating on all cylinders, but mine is a small engine, after all.
“What on earth could a pair of detectives want with me?”
“They want to ask you about Mrs. Shadbark’s death.”
5
It’s amazing how fast the human body can move when the pressure is on. I dressed, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair—all in just under three minutes. It may have not been the perfect toilette, but I was certainly presentable. Gathering my wits about me took only a few seconds more, so it was three minutes exactly when I opened my bedroom door. The fact that C.J. had wasted precious time babbling was not my fault.
I have, alas, been involved in other crime investigations. Therefore, even though I was dying to know—if you’ll excuse the pun—what had happened to Mrs. Shadbark since our tea, I knew it was vitally important for me to act unconcerned until officially presented with the facts. To my credit, I appeared positively nonchalant as I breezed into the drawing room to greet my visitors.
The detectives rose to their feet when they saw me, so I knew they were native Southerners. Either that or they’d been just plain well brought up. Or both. At any rate, they didn’t look in the least perturbed.
One was tall, middle-aged, balding, and with a slight paunch. “Good morning, Mrs. Timberlake,” he said, extending his hand.
I shook it. “Actually, that’s Mrs. Washburn. It used to be Timberlake, but now I use that only for professional reasons. Please, just call me Abby.”
“Sergeant Magnol Bright,” he said.
I raised a shapely eyebrow. “Magnol—now that’s an interesting name.”
Sergeant Bright sighed. “Mama was fond of flowers. I have a twin brother named Azal. If we’d been girls, we would have been Magnolia and Azalea.”
“Good thing your mama didn’t like asters,” the second detective said.
I smiled. “And you are?”
“Sergeant Peter Scrubb.”
It would be hard not to like Sergeant Scrubb. As hard to not like looking at him. He was, in my opinion, a dead ringer for the actor Ben Affleck.
“Good morning Sergeant. What can I do for y’all?”
“Psst, Abby,” C.J. said from behind me.
I ignored her. “My friend said you wanted to speak with me.”
“Yes,” Sergeant Scrubb said. “We—”
“Psst!”
“C.J., not now!”
“But Abby, your blouse is inside out.”
I glanced down. No wonder the dang thing had been so hard to button. Well, at least my slacks were zipped.
“That’s all the rage in Milan, dear.” I smiled at the cute cop. “You were saying?”
“Do you mind if we sit? This may take a while.”
I waved to a pair of chairs. “By all means.”
They waited until C.J. and I sat, and then followed suit. Magnol spoke first.
“I apologize for the intrusion, Abby. I know how bad migraines can be. It’s just that—”
“Migraines?” I know it’s not nice to interrupt, but sometimes a girl just has to.
“Severe migraines,” C.J. hissed. “She has them all the time.”
“I do not!”
“She’s having one now, and doesn’t even know it. That’s how severe they are.”
I glared at the big gal. “Don’t you need to wash dishes or something?” I turned to the men. “Good help is so hard to find these days.”
C.J. hopped to her feet with the ease of a gymnast. “Well, there’s no need to be rude. If you want me, Abby, I’ll be visiting the Rob-Bobs.”
By comparison, I struggled to my size fours. “Sorry, C.J. That was unkind of me.”
That big heart is pure gold. “That’s okay, Abby. But I was planning to visit them anyway. I haven’t seen their new Charleston shop yet.”
“Then give them my love,” I said.
Both men stood. Sergeant Bright looked inquiringly at his partner, who seemed to be the one in charge.
“Just a minute,” Sergeant Scrubb said. “I’m going to need a contact number.”
“She’s staying here for the next few days,” I said. “Or do you mean the Rob-Bob’s?”
“Where is the Rob-Bob’s, ma’am?”
“It’s not a where,” I said, “it’s a who. They’re a pair of mutual friends; Rob Goldburg and Bob Steuben. They just moved here from Charlotte, and have opened a shop on King Street called The Finer Things.”
The men exchanged glances. “They know anything about glass?” Sergeant Scrubb asked.
“Fine glassware, yes.”
“They’re experts on just about everything,” C.J. said loyally.
“Mind if I come with you?” Sergeant Bright asked C.J.
C.J. nodded. “I walk kinda fast, though. You might not be able to keep up.”
The older man laughed. “You’re on.”
I poured myself a cup of C.J.’s coffee—which was much better than mine, by the way—and settled into a William and Mary period wing armchair. The pale yellow fabric, emboldened by larger-than-life blue flowers, is my new favorite look. Sergeant Scrubb, his cup refilled, sat in a matching chair opposite. He seemed surprisingly comfortable with my frou-frou.
“Shall we begin?” he asked.
“Fire away!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, haven’t you been grilling C.J. all morning?” I caught myself. “I mean, she cooked you breakfast. You had to talk about something.”
“Actually, we had a very nice conversation. But I must say, Miss Cox has an interesting way of putting things.”
“Well, that’s one way to put it. Did she tell you any Shelby stories?”
He chuckled and ran long, strong fingers through dark hair. “One or two.” He cleared his throat. “Miss—Mrs.—”
“Abby,” I reminded him.
“Yes, Abby. I understand you and Miss Cox attended a tea at the home of Mrs. Amelia Shadbark yesterday afternoon.”
“That’s correct,” I said.
“And, judging by your reaction—or lack thereof—when you walked into this room, you already knew about Mrs. Shadbark’s death.”
“C.J. told me. That’s the first I’d heard of it, I swear.”
He nodded. “Suppose you tell me about your relationship with the diseased.”
“There was no relationship. I’d only met her that once—for tea.”
“Was she the friend of a friend?”
“I don’t have any friends—well, except for the
Rob-Bobs, and C.J., who is only visiting. We’ve just moved here, you see, and it’s hard to meet people when you’re working full-time—something my husband, Greg, and I both do. Making friends is like dating. It takes time and effort.”
Sergeant Scrubb found that comment interesting enough to jot down in the little brown notebook he held in his right hand. He used a pencil stub so short that from where I sat it looked like he was writing with his fingers.
“Then why do you think it is she invited you to tea?”
I smiled. “Oh, that’s easy. She wanted me to broker her Lalique.”
“Ah, yes, the trinket collection Miss Cox mentioned.”
“Trinkets? Trinkets? I’ll have you know that René Lalique was the finest glassmaker of the Art Nouveau period. Maybe of all time.” I hopped off my chair with anger-fueled agility. “Look at this,” I said, snatching the peacock perfume bottle from its place of honor on the coffee table. “Does this look like a trinket to you?”
He looked closely, but didn’t touch. “It’s kind of pretty, I guess. If you go in for that sort of thing.”
“Pretty? It’s exquisite! You should have seen all the fabulous pieces Amelia had.”
His eyes flickered. “Amelia?”
“She asked us to call her that!” I wailed. “I didn’t know her until yesterday, I really didn’t.”
The stubby pencil got a good workout. “Miss—uh, Abby—”
“You see! I asked you to call me Abby, and you just did.”
He smiled. “Touché. So, Abby, please describe your tea yesterday.”
I carefully set the peacock down and returned to my chair. “Well, C.J. and I got there at four o’clock, which was right on time. I had to close my shop early, of course. Anyway, this very stern housekeeper, maid, whatever—Brunhilde, her name was—answered the door. Hey, if you’re looking for a suspect, I suggest you try her.”
“Suspect?”
For such a small person, I have a huge mouth. If I was a python, I’d be able to swallow myself. I gave my wayward mug a gentle, corrective, slap.
“Well, I mean if there’s been any kind of foul play,” I said.
