by Tamar Myers
“My name is Mindy Sparrow, and I’m a friend of the family. Now, who are you?”
“My name is Abigail Timberlake, and I was a business associate of the deceased.”
“Amelia didn’t own a business.”
“Maybe so, but that’s how we met.”
“Just what kind of business?”
“None of yours.”
I spoke softly, and my tone was nothing if not polite. Nonetheless, Ms. Sparrow reeled in apparent shock. Had her spike heels been any higher, she would have been at risk for breaking a limb.
“Why, I never!”
“That’s hard to believe, ma’am. You seem pretty good at being rude.”
“Then I shall call the police.”
“Please do. I’d like to level harassment charges.”
That comment generated both teetering and twittering. “Why, I never,” she said again. “This is just preposterous.”
“I quite agree. This is the first time I’ve had a complete stranger demand that I give her a gift—one just given to me by a friend.”
She emitted a series of strange sounds. The best way I can describe it is that it reminded me of a flock of birds settling in to roost for the night. I waited patiently until she was able to form words.
“That man is your friend?”
“A very dear friend. One for whom I wouldn’t hesitate to lay down my life.”
“But he’s the gardener!”
I glanced around. “And a very good one too. You should see the backyard.”
“I’ve seen it many times.” She eyed the package. “Don’t the police usually seal a house under these circumstances?”
“I suppose they do. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I better be going.” I nimbly sidestepped her. “I’ll tell Constance and Orman that you called,” I said over my shoulder.
“Just a minute!”
I turned, having gotten the desired effect. “Yes?”
“So you really know the family?”
“Do you?”
“Constance Shadbark is my best friend,” she said. “We grew up together—in fact, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know Constance. Funny though, but I can’t remember her ever mentioning you, Ms. Timberquake.”
“That’s Timberlake. And I may as well come clean now—I never met your friend Constance.”
“But you said—”
“Ms. Canary—”
“That’s Sparrow! Mrs. Sparrow.”
“Mrs. Sparrow, then. My intimating that I knew Constance and Orman was just my way of finding out if you really knew them yourself. For all I know, you could have been just another nosy neighbor.”
She smiled for the first time. “I see you’ve met Evangeline LaPointe.”
“She was very chatty.”
“I bet she was.”
“No doubt she told you horror stories about Mrs. Shadbark. Did she mention the dog incident?”
“In detail.”
“You believed her?”
“I took it with a grain of salt.”
“Ms. Timberlake, who are you really, and what are doing here?”
There wasn’t a trace of animosity in her voice, so the tide appeared to have turned in my favor. I decided to trot out the truth. Sometimes this strategy actually works.
“I’m an antique dealer. Mrs. Shadbark invited me to tea yesterday. She asked me to broker her Lalique collection.”
Mindy Sparrow raised an eyebrow—well, what would have been an eyebrow, had it not been for some overzealous plucking.
“She contacted me,” I hastened to explain. “I really am a legitimate antique dealer. My shop is the Den of Antiquity. It’s on King Street.” I fumbled for another one of my business cards, but fished out a dilapidated card for Manly Moe’s Massage and Tattoo Parlor on the Isle of Palms. I have no idea how that got in my purse.
“That’s all right, Ms. Timberlake. I believe you. It’s just that I haven’t a clue as to what collection you’re talking about.”
“René Lalique.”
“Really? I’m afraid I don’t know her clothes. Are they available at Talbot’s?”
Anyone who caries a crumpled card from Moe’s Massage and Tattoo Parlor has no business snickering. I tried my darnedest not to.
“It’s a glass collection.”
“Like goblets and such?”
“There are a few of those, yes. But her collection contains mostly vases and perfume bottles. Although she does have a couple of nice hood ornaments. Lalique made those too.”
Mindy Sparrow’s nose wrinkled as badly as her skirt. I would have thought that all Linen Ladies loved Lalique, but apparently not this one.
“Oh, that collection. Well, from what I understand, Ms. Timberlake, whoever, uh, killed Mrs. Shadbark destroyed that. All those knickknacks broken to bits.”
“They weren’t knickknacks!” Perhaps I’d been a little too vehement. “They were highly collectible and quite valuable.”
Her nose became as smooth as glass. “How valuable?”
“Well, that’s hard to say—I just got an overall peek. The first thing I was supposed to do, you see, is appraise them.”
“But off the top of your head. How much would they bring at auction?”
I shrugged. “Somewhere between a hundred thousand dollars and half a million. I know that’s a broad figure, but it all depends on how limited the edition of each piece, and how well publicized the auction is. I was thinking Sotheby’s, which should bring top dollar.”
“I see. And do the police know this?”
“I tried to tell them.”
She glanced at her car. She seemed suddenly anxious to leave.
“Are you in the book?”
“Not yet, but directory assistance will have the number.” I assumed she meant the telephone book, and not the social registry. Unless I was cryogenically frozen and then thawed three centuries from now, I stood no chance of ever being listed in the latter.
“I may give you a call,” she said. Without further ado she turned and clicked away. She seemed to have totally forgotten the box I clutched to my chest.
I watched her go. When her car was safely out of sight, I intended to do a little reconnoitering of the grounds. Since I didn’t plan to enter the house—unless I “accidentally” found the back door unlocked—I had no expectations as to what I might find. But after all, isn’t that the point of reconnaissance? Who knows, Mrs. Shadbark’s killer might have left a trail of Lalique shards across the grass that the police—
My reverie was interrupted by a crash on the third story piazza across the street. I looked up just in time to see Evangeline LaPointe duck out sight. Unless my tired eyes were deceiving me, she had a pair of binoculars hanging from her neck.
It was time to cut my losses and get out of there.
10
I was late getting back to work. Homer Johnson, bless his heart, remained at the shop until I returned. Although it was only ten minutes past my regular closing time, it had been an inexcusable and irresponsible thing for me to do.
“I’m really sorry,” I said the second I found him.
He was dusting a carved mahogany bureau. Dusting.
“Think nothing of it, ma’am. But I used your phone again to call my wife. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? You could have called the one who lives in Alaska, and I wouldn’t have cared.”
“Ma’am?”
“That was a joke, Homer.” I looked around. Something was amiss; the shop looked much emptier than I remembered. Perhaps clean furniture took up less space.
Homer was astute, as well as tidy. “I sold the Renaissance Revival parlor suite, ma’am. And that Art Deco sideboard.” He pronounced the word “deek-o.”
“Get out of town! I’ve been trying to get rid of that parlor suite since I set up shop. Came with an estate I bought that couldn’t be split.”
“Did that big dresser with the chipped veneer come with that estate as well?”
I
glanced over to where I’d last set eyes on that ugly piece. “You sold that, too!”
“Yes, ma’am. I told them it would be lonely without that parlor suite.”
Had I been a good foot taller, I would have grabbed Homer Johnson by the jowls and planted a big wet smooch atop his shiny pate. Instead, I grabbed his hand and pumped it vigorously.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you working for me. In fact, I’ve just decided that instead of a straight salary, I’m going to put you on commission. How does ten percent sound? I’ll even make it retroactive.”
Homer smiled happily. “That sounds wonderful, ma’am.”
“Great.”
“Ma’am?”
“Yes, Homer?”
“I don’t mean this to sound bad, or anything, but—uh—uh—”
“You want me to tell my mother to leave you alone?”
His chrome dome lit up like Rudolph’s nose. “It’s just that I’m a married man, and my wife’s kind of a jealous woman. If she comes by the shop—”
“That’s all right. No need to say more. I’ll tell Mama to heel.”
Homer made me promise not to be too hard on Mama. He also volunteered to open the shop for me in the morning; an offer I eagerly accepted. Thanks to an extra pair of pudgy hands, I was going to have time on my own to do the thing I do best.
I trudged through the front door of my new home wanting nothing more out of life than a nice long soak in the tub, and maybe a little food. Instead, I got Mama.
“Abby, you’re late.”
“Why, is Greg home already?”
“No. He called from Mount Pleasant. He said to tell you he had a good haul—whatever that means—and he’ll be home as soon as he gets it unloaded and weighed.”
“That’s great, Mama!”
“If you say so, dear.” She eyed the box Percival Franklin had given me. “What’s that?”
“Nothing much. Where’s C.J.?”
“In the kitchen making supper.”
“What?” I set the box and my purse on the hall console. “Mama, C.J. can’t cook. Besides, you told me you were making shepherd’s pie.”
“I changed my mind, dear. And C.J.’s not actually making supper, she’s just helping Bob.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Some sort of trouble with Rob, but he won’t give me any details.” She gave me an accusing look. “Things just seem to fall apart when I’m gone.”
I kicked off my sandals. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know, dear.”
“Know what?”
Mama patted her pearls. “Abby, don’t make me say it.”
I climbed wearily into the lap of my favorite William and Mary. It was no bathtub, but I knew from a lifetime of experience that Mama was going to have her say. My choice was to hear her out in the tub, in my birthday suit, or in the living room, while I was fully clothed. Since bubbles don’t last forever, but Mama’s lectures do, I chose the chair.
The second I was seated Dmitri appeared from nowhere and joined me. He immediately began kneading my thighs with his front paws. This cat has an unerring ability to tell when I’m agitated, no matter how calm my voice.
“Say it, Mama.”
“All right, dear, if you insist.” Mama sat in the chair opposite me. “It’s just that—well, like I said before, Mrs. Shadbark was our perfect entrée into Charleston society. Why, a pretty woman like you, with a handsome husband like Greg—not to mention a mother like me—you would have climbed straight to the top.”
Dmitri had stopped kneading and was lashing my face with his tail. I spit out a mouthful of hair.
“Mama, it wouldn’t have happened that way.”
“Sure, it may have taken a couple of weeks—a month or two at the most.”
“Mama, this isn’t Rock Hill. Or Charlotte, even. It’s a whole different world down here. Charleston has secret societies—clubs, I guess you’d call them—that most folks don’t know exist. I remember reading somewhere that even folks from the oldest and best families are on lists waiting to get in. Face it, Mama, we were deluding ourselves.”
Mama shook her head vigorously. “You’re forgetting, dear, that I belong to both the DAR and the Daughters of the Confederacy.”
I pushed Dmitri gently off my lap. “Give it up, Mama. It wouldn’t have happened.”
“Well, if I had been there—” Mama’s hand left her pearls and flew to her mouth.
“Oh, I get it! You think if you’d gone with me to the tea, that somehow Mrs. Shadbark would still be alive.”
“You said it, dear, not me.”
“What would you have done differently, Mama? Invited yourself to stay overnight?”
Mama shrugged. She looked on the verge of tears.
“Is it so awful to want to belong?”
“No, Mama. But we don’t have to belong to every group. You have your friends from church, and there are plenty of people like us who have moved here from other places.”
“A lot of them are Yankees,” Mama said, her voice barely a whisper.
In fact, I wasn’t sure at first that I heard right. “What did you say, Mama?”
“You heard me, dear.”
“For shame, Mama. One of your granddaddies was a Yankee.”
“He was from Maryland, dear. That’s a border state.”
“But he fought for the Union.”
Mama dropped the subject, but it was not a satisfying victory for me. Clearly she missed her friends back in Rock Hill. That may have been a very small pond, a puddle even, but Mama had been a big fish—maybe not a grass carp, but at least a large-mouthed bass. In Charleston we were destined to be minnows.
Greg arrived in ebullient spirits; it had been his largest shrimp catch yet. He claimed he’d heard the critters calling to him from the bottom of the ocean. All he had to do was chug over to where they were and let down his nets. The crustaceans literally crawled into them. After he kissed me, he kissed Mama, and then C.J. He would have kissed Bob, except that the latter was too busy putting the final touches on dinner to be bothered by such nonsense.
I told Greg about hiring Homer Johnson, but I saw no need to put a damper on his spirits by telling him about the rest of my day. Instead, I coaxed him into the shower (whether I joined him is really not your business). Then I fixed him a scotch and soda, and we all, except for Bob, sat around in the living room and listened to Greg recount the events in his day.
Although we listened with varying degrees of enthusiasm, C.J. seemed particularly enthralled. At one point, when Greg was describing dumping the catch on the culling table, my young friend got so excited she fell off her chair.
Greg leaped to give her a hand. “C.J., are you all right?”
C.J. stood on her own power. “I’m fine. Ooh, Greg, would you take me with you tomorrow? Please? Pretty please?”
Greg looked at me. “You better ask the boss.”
C.J. literally threw herself at my feet, barely missing the edge of the coffee table. “Please, Abby? With sugar on top?”
I sighed. It’s not that I didn’t trust the two of them together. Plus which, Greg’s cousins would be there. It was just that Calamity Jane didn’t come by her name in a vacuum.
“You have to promise to do what you’re told,” I said sternly.
C.J. threw her arms around my legs and gave them a tight squeeze. “Ooh Abby,” this is going to bring back so many memories.”
“I didn’t know you’d been shrimping before.”
“I haven’t. But Granddaddy Ledbetter took me batting once when I was a little girl. I’m sure there are many similarities.”
“I don’t see what hitting a baseball has to do with shrimp, dear.”
C.J. laughed. “Not that kind of bat, silly. The kind that hang upside down in caves. You see there’s this cave near Shelby—”
“Let me guess,” Greg said. “Your Granny made bat stew.”
The big gal made a disgusted face. �
�That would be yucky, wouldn’t it? No, Granny used to cut them into bite-size bits, dip them in a special bat batter, and deep fry them until they were nice and crunchy.”
“Bat batter?” Mama asked. She was always looking for new recipes to submit to church cookbooks.
C.J. nodded. “I could give you the recipe if you want.”
“Maybe later, dear,” I said.
Bob was motioning us all to sit down. His pride in his gourmet meals is exceeded only by the control he exerts over those who partake of his efforts. Allow one of his soufflés to fall, and he’ll pout for weeks.
Knowing him as we all do, we took our seats. Greg sat at the head of the table, yours truly at the foot—or, if you like, the other way around. Mama and C.J. sat on one side, Bob on the other. After Mama said her short Episcopal grace, we all dug in.
Some of us stopped digging almost immediately. “This is very interesting,” Greg said diplomatically. “What did you call it?”
“It’s grouper. I wrapped it in pancetta—which is sort of an Italian bacon—then broiled it.”
“What’s that stuff under it?” C.J. asked, as if she didn’t know. After all, she’d been in the kitchen helping him.
Mama gave her the evil eye. We both knew we’d have been a lot better off with shepherd’s pie. Possibly even with battered bat bits.
“That stuff,” Bob said archly, “is pureed potato infused with goat cheese.”
Greg turned as green as the Atlantic where it hugs the coast. Unless something happened to distract him, he was going to blow like a norther.
Mama, bless her heart, decided to take the initiative. “Abby, dear,” she said almost cheerfully, “how is the murder investigation going?”
Greg went from green to white in a nanosecond. “What murder investigation?”
I gave Mama two evil eyes.
Mama has never been one to take hints. “Mrs. Shadbark, the woman Abby had tea with yesterday, was poisoned. Our Abby may have been the last person to see her alive.”
“Except for our C.J.!” I wailed.
Greg’s eyes, normally the color of fine sapphires, had turned a dark gray. “Abby, you’re not involving yourself in this, are you?”
