Splendor in the Glass

by Tamar Myers

He said nothing.

  “Well, has there been?”

  “Abby, I’m not at liberty to discuss this case.”

  “Then what are we doing now?”

  He smiled again. “I’m afraid this is when you talk, and I listen.”

  “Gotcha. In that case, maybe I should call my lawyer.”

  The smile shrank until it disappeared altogether. “I wouldn’t advise that, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am? What happened to Abby?”

  “I’m afraid this isn’t a game, ma’am.”

  “Indeed it’s not. That’s why I think it would be a good idea to have an attorney present.” I reached for the phone on the mahogany end table next to my chair. “Unless, of course, you specifically forbid me.”

  He waved at the phone. “By all means, call. But I think you should know that—seeing as how there haven’t been any charges—calling an attorney now could look suspicious.”

  “To whom?”

  Again, he said nothing.

  “Okay,” I wailed, “I’ll finish my story. It’s just that all those notes you’re taking make me nervous—not that I have any reason to be, of course.”

  The smile returned and he balanced the little book on his crossed knee. The pencil disappeared, no doubt hidden by his huge hand.

  “Please continue, Abby.”

  I took a deep breath. “So anyway, this Brunhilde person led us through the house and made us wait in a room that was literally a museum. There were glass cabinets along all the walls, and they held the largest, and finest, collection of Lalique I’ve ever see—outside of the Gulbenkian.”

  The pencil materialized. “Gull—gull—what?”

  “Gulbenkian.” I sounded the word slowly, but I had no idea how to spell it. “It’s a fine arts museum in Portugal. Anyway, Amel—I mean, Mrs. Shadbark, has a little sitting area in that room, and that’s where we had tea. Brunhilde, incidentally, prepared it.”

  “Did she pour as well?”

  My, how well-bred Charleston detectives were. Tea pouring is, after all, a ritual, and not something a guest does for herself.

  “Yes, Brunhilde poured. And with an attitude, I might add.”

  “Attitude?”

  “Sergeant Scrubb, that woman could stare down Attila the Hun at a hundred paces.”

  He made note of that. “What did she serve to eat?”

  “Scones with butter and peach preserves. They were m-m-good!”

  “Anything else?”

  “Wait a minute! Mrs. Shadbark wasn’t poisoned, was she?”

  “Abby, please just answer the question.”

  I sighed. I knew where he was going with that.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you, but you have to believe me when I say I ate one of everything. Let’s see…there were cucumber sandwiches, of course. Watercress sandwiches. Salmon and cream cheese sandwiches—oh, and chocolate cake. But that, I didn’t really eat. Just one bite. It had the worst icing I’ve ever tasted. Didn’t taste like chocolate at all. C.J.’s an icing freak, but she didn’t like it either.” I quit yapping long enough to swallow some bad manners. “I’m sure Mrs. Shadbark meant well by the cake.”

  “That it then?”

  “Well, there was milk and sugar for the tea, as well as lemon.”

  He nodded. “What did Miss Cox eat?”

  “She ate everything as well. In fact, she had seconds of everything. Three scones even. It was only that horrible cake—” My petite paw found my maw.

  Scrubb’s stub got a good workout. “What about Mrs. Shadbark?”

  “She had a scone—no, make that just half a scone, but a fairly large piece of cake. And tea with milk and two sugars. Nothing else. I remember because—”

  He closed the little book and slipped it into the breast pocket of his suit. The pencil magically disappeared again.

  “Thank you, Abby, you’ve been very helpful.”

  “I have?”

  He stood, fixing his Ben Affleck gaze on me. “Miss Cox said you were married.” There was definitely a question there.

  “Very,” I said, looking him straight in the eyes.

  “Your husband’s a lucky man.”

  “I’m a lucky woman.”

  He looked away first. “I’m going to need your work number. In case I have any more questions.”

  For what’s it worth, Magdalena Yoder, a friend of mine up in Pennsylvania, claims that a woman’s hunch is worth two facts from a man. Well, I had two hunches: one, that I’d be hearing from Sergeant Scrubb again soon, and two, it wouldn’t necessarily be about business. At least the business of Amelia Shadbark’s untimely demise.

  I hope you understand then why I lied.

  6

  “You what?” Bob Steuben boomed. The man has a deep bass voice that must originate in his toes. That’s the only way I can explain how such a slight build produces such a rich sound.

  After ushering Sergeant Scrubb out my front door, I’d gone straight to my shop, the Den of Antiquity. I hadn’t even bothered to turn my blouse right side out. Bob had seen the cluster of folks waiting for me on the walk, and had hurried over to help with sales. Apparently he and Rob had gotten into a tiff—something I hoped to hear more of—and he was glad to be of service. But in this business customers come and go in waves, and we were currently experiencing calm seas at low tide. I’d taken advantage of the lull to fill my friend in on the last eighteen hours.

  I hung my head in shame. “I lied to him. I transposed the last two digits.”

  “For shame.” Bob sounded more amused than disapproving. “It’s not like he won’t find you. One doesn’t have to be a detective to call information.”

  “I know,” I wailed. “But since I knew what he was up to, I didn’t want to make it easy. I think he gets the message.”

  “What? That you’re playing hard to get? Abby, methinks you flatter yourself. Not every handsome man that comes along has the hots for you. Could it be that you have the hots for him?”

  There are times when I can feel myself blush. This was one of them.

  “Bob, you know that I wouldn’t be interested in anyone except for my own, dear hubby.”

  “Yes, if only I could say the same about Rob.”

  I’d been dusting a bronze statue and I let the feather duster fall. “What do you mean?”

  Bob scooped up the duster and handed it to me. “Abby, this has to stay between you and me.”

  “It will.”

  “You swear?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

  “Ouch, Abby, I always hated that saying.”

  “Bob, just say it, will you?”

  “Well, I always thought Rob and I didn’t keep anything from each other, but lately he’s been acting very secretive.”

  “How so?”

  “For one thing, he insists on collecting the mail.”

  “That’s it?”

  “And he screens our e-mail before I get a chance. And last night he was on the phone to someone, and when I walked into the room he hung up immediately. Didn’t even say good-bye. When I find out who this person is, believe me, he’s going to be one sorry guy.”

  “How do you know it’s a male?”

  Bob rolled his eyes. “Please. I said he was acting strange—not crazy.”

  “Right. But I think you’re jumping to conclusions. In fact, this sounds like something I saw on a TV show once. Turns out the person sneaking around was just getting his GED.”

  Bob’s laugh rattled the panes in shop windows. “Robert Goldburg has a master’s degree in art history.”

  I gave the bronze a good thrashing with the duster. “Whatever. My point is, it’s undoubtedly something innocent, and you’re going to feel like a fool when he tells you.”

  “I’ll settle for that.”

  The strap of sleigh bells suspended on a hook on the front door of my shop jangled. I looked over to see two middle-aged women in shorts and T-shirts. They were obviously tourists—which is
not a put-down, mind you. Tourists have at least enough money to travel. In some cases a whole lot more.

  I smiled and said hello, but then turned my attention back to Bob. Experience has taught me that while most shoppers like to be acknowledged, they prefer not to be followed around the shop like I was a vulture, and they were starving antelope about to drop dead on the Serengeti Plains. Besides, 168 King Street is not a large shop, and is very well organized, if I do say so myself. Unlike most shops, I’ve elected to display my wares by century, and each item is clearly marked. In addition to the date, the identifying card, which is tied to the piece with ribbon, contains as much information about the provenance as I can ferret out of the original owner. If no information is available, I offer my educated guess, and mark it as such. By the way, I price goods to allow for a ten percent discount, should the customer ask. In rare instances, I can come down as much as twenty percent. It never hurts to ask, but strangely, most folks don’t.

  “So,” Bob said, when it appeared as if the customers were managing on their own, “tell me more about this fabulous Lalique collection. Couldn’t you just die?”

  I smiled weakly. “Sadly, someone did. But Bob, it was incredible. She had tableware, vases, scent bottles, jewelry, decorative furnishings, even lighting fixtures.”

  Bob dabbed the corners of his mouth with a silk handkerchief. He was on the verge of having a religious experience by proxy.

  “What was your favorite piece?”

  “That’s hard to say. I mean, I love the peacock perfume bottle, because it’s mine. But there was this rectangular box that I think is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It was clear glass, but frosted and stained a pale green. The four sides of the box had a stylized relief of fern leaves. On the satin-sheen lid were two nudes, their heads thrown back, their arms stretched forward, their hands locking. They were the handle.”

  Bob moaned behind the cloth.

  “I just can’t believe she’s dead,” I said. I whirled. Someone had tapped me on the back.

  “Miss, I need your help.” The speaker was wearing a yellow cotton T-shirt with a splattering of orange-brown stains, and a pair of lavender spandex shorts. Although she had plenty of curves, they were not arranged in an hourglass pattern.

  I looked at the Ming dynasty, Cheng-te period porcelain box she held. The emperor during this reign was a fourteen-year-old pleasure-seeker who preferred traveling around China incognito to governing. Control of the government was turned over to Muhammadan eunuchs. Their influence shows up on the Arabic inscriptions that decorate many artifacts of this area. This particular box had a white glaze with blue scrollwork, which translated read: “The fool judges first, and asks questions later.”

  “That’s a very rare piece,” I said. “The best I can do is come down ten percent.”

  “That’s not what I want to know,” the shopper snapped. “Does this box come in other colors?”

  It was a good thing Bob had his mouth covered. I’m sure he was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  “No, ma’am,” I said with a straight face.

  “How about a larger size, then. And I need two of them, one for my daughter’s coffee table, and one for mine.”

  “Ma’am, this is the only one I have.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t checked the stockroom yet.”

  Bob chortled, sounding for all the world like a quartet of bullfrogs. The customer, thank heavens, didn’t seem to notice.

  “I know I don’t have more because I bought this piece at an estate sale up in Charlotte. It was the only one of its kind.”

  The woman in dirty yellow and lavender spandex was joined by a friend. The friend was wearing a green, one-size-fits-all dress that didn’t live up to its label.

  “Mildred, what’s taking so long?” the friend asked.

  “She’s being difficult,” Mildred said.

  “I am not!”

  “Let’s just leave,” the friend said.

  “But I want this,” Mildred said, waving the porcelain box about as if it were a Glo Light stick.

  “Whatever for?” The friend grabbed Mildred’s arm. “Come on, I’ve seen better ones at Pottery Barn.”

  “Bigger sizes?”

  “All sizes. Connie got herself one so big she uses it for a coffee table.”

  Mildred thrust the Cheng-te box at me. Lucky for her I managed to get a good grip.

  “But this one is only twelve dollars,” she said. “The ones at Pottery Barn have got to cost more.”

  “This one is twelve hundred dollars!” I shrieked. “Those are zeroes!”

  “She’s nuts,” Mildred’s friend said.

  Bob Steuben roared with laughter.

  I let Bob laugh as long as I could possibly stand it. Then I gently put the business end of the feather duster to his mouth. He pushed it aside and spit.

  “Well, Abby, you have to admit that was funny.”

  “About as funny as graffiti. Twelve dollars indeed!”

  The door opened and a party of four entered. They were casually dressed as well, but none of them were wearing shorts. I smiled my approval. This is Charleston, after all. A three-hundred-year-old city deserves at least a modicum of respect.

  After greeting them I turned to Bob. “You know, I really should get a helper. Don’t get me wrong, I love having the shop, but the thrill for me is in acquiring the merchandise, not selling it. You sure I can’t tempt you to hang out here on a permanent basis?”

  It was a joke, of course, since Bob is full partners with Rob in more ways then one. He certainly didn’t need a job working as my flunky.

  “You know, Abby, sometimes I think you’re psychic.”

  “You sure you don’t mean psycho?”

  “Hey, none of us is perfect. But you see that guy there? The one in the khaki pants and blue knit shirt?”

  “Yes, what about him?”

  “He’s not with the others. He’s here to get a job.”

  “Cute.”

  “No, I mean it. He stopped by our shop this morning looking for a job as sales clerk. We didn’t need him, of course, but I told him you might. He came straight over here, but you weren’t in yet. I told him to keep trying. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Well, uh, does he have any experience?”

  “Why don’t you ask him yourself,” Bob said. “While I wait on the others.”

  Experts claim that we are biologically programmed to dislike nearly twenty percent of the people we meet. For my friend Magdalena Yoder up in Pennsylvania, the figure is more like eighty percent. It stands to reason, at least in my cotton-picking little brain, that by the same token we are inclined to find a similar proportion of people highly desirable. And I don’t necessarily mean in a sexual way.

  Trust me, there was nothing sexual about Homer Johnson. He was pale and doughy, with enormous jowls that spilled over the collar of the blue knit shirt. His head was as bald as a Goodyear tire, and he was wearing the first pair of square glasses I’d seen in years. But I liked him. I can’t explain why; I just did.

  “Mr. Johnson,” I said, “what experience do you have?”

  “Ma’am, I’m sixty-eight years old. You name it, I’ve experienced it.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “What I meant was, what experience do you have working with antiques?”

  “Ma’am, my wife is seventy. Just thirty more years and she meets federal specifications.”

  “I’ll tell her you said that. But seriously, have you ever worked in an antique store?”

  “No, ma’am. I was a haberdasher up in Knoxville. Owned my own shop—Genuine Gents—for forty-five years. Was sick only thirty-nine days.” He ambled over to inspect a collection of glass paperweights I keep locked in a display case. “Them is right pretty,” he said.

  “Indeed, they are. Did you say you were sick for thirty-nine days?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but that’s thirty-nine days altogether. That averages to less than one sick day per year.”
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  “You’re quite right. Well, at least you have experience working with the public.”

  “And I can work a cash register—even one of those newfangled computerized ones. But more importantly, I can add and subtract.”

  “That is certainly a plus. What brings you to Charleston, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Winter.”

  I nodded. A lot of retirees pick the Charleston area because of its mild climate.

  “I’m not fond of winter either, Mr. Johnson. Give me a nice hot summer day anytime.”

  He grinned and the jowls quivered. “Winter is our daughter’s name. She moved down here last year to take a job at the College of Charleston. She’s a professor.”

  “How nice for you. And for her! My mother lives with my husband and me, but my children are away at college. Kids can be a pain at times, but I miss mine terribly.”

  I’m not sure he heard me. He was staring at a Tiffany-style lampshade.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said with a slight bow, “but that ain’t real, is it?”

  “In fact, it’s not. How did you know?”

  “My wife’s mama’s aunt had a real one of those. The glass was—well, prettier.”

  “Prettier in which way?”

  “Sorry, ma’am, I spoke out of turn. It’s just that when you’re in the haberdashery business, you get to know quality.”

  I smiled. The man wasn’t eloquent, but he did have a discerning eye.

  “Mr. Johnson, I’ll certainly keep your name on file—”

  “Just a minute, please,” he said. Then he hurried over to where two Linen Ladies had been mulling over a sabre-leg classical sofa for the past five minutes. At least. They’d taken turns sitting on it, inspecting the fabric closely (it was original 1825 fabric over horsehair, and in remarkable condition), and were now standing with arms akimbo, just staring at the piece. This was, of course, all a bit silly, since my asking price was only twenty-five hundred dollars, and this pair was wearing enough money on their respective persons to send some deserving person to a private college for a year.

  I held my breath. What did a haberdasher from Tennessee know about Linen Ladies? Tourists in spandex shorts, maybe, but not our local Linen Ladies. And these women were definitely local. I’d seen their faces in the society column several times. One of them, I think, went to Mama’s church.